


Unresolved

by Sera_Clay



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2015-02-01
Packaged: 2018-03-06 09:11:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 38,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3129083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sera_Clay/pseuds/Sera_Clay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lizzington, romance, established relationship. Red and Liz play house.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Bench

It's been a difficult six months for Elizabeth Keen.

Raymond Reddington has been gone, out of the country, for undisclosed reasons he assures her are crucial to their long term mission of catching blacklisters.

She's not sure what he told Harold Cooper. Their team has been sorting through old leads, taking on special assignments, rotating out their vacation time. 

Ressler went skiing, Aram went to Las Vegas. Liz spent time with family in Nebraska.

Red calls her occasionally. He provides her only small tips, many of which the FBI already have. If she didn't know better, she'd think he was calling just to hear her voice.

Liz worked and trained and studied so hard, for so many years, to become an agent. How can one man, even a brilliant mastermind like Red, with his custom suits, and his cryptic hints, and the way he can go from charming to deadly without a blink in between, make everything about what she does for a living seem dull when he's not around?

She has to keep reminding herself that he's a criminal. Vanishing out of her life without warning is by far the least of the terrible things he's done.

Liz trains long hours at the gym, shoots at the range until her wrists ache, still can't sleep through the night even though she bought a new mattress and box spring to go with her new apartment.

It's barely furnished; she sold everything she and Tom owned together.

As she approaches her apartment, light snow falling from a darkening gray sky, Liz detours into a nearby park. Sits on a metal bench in her trench coat, floppy black wool beret pulled low on her forehead, hiding her hair.

She still visits the public places she and Red used to meet, sits for a few minutes quietly before leaving.

She can tell that sometimes she's being followed. If they're looking for Red, she hopes that at least she's wasting their time.

Liz looks down at her leather gloved hands. The ring finger of the left hand is puckered from where her engagement ring stretched it out last winter.

She'll toss the gloves when she gets home, add new gloves to the running list of items she's saving to replace.

He slides into the seat beside her as if he's never been away.

"Good evening, Lizzie."

She glances over at him, sees the black car idling at the curb. There's a stranger at the wheel.

Liz stares forward.

Red's face is pasty pale, the shadows beneath his eyes deep and dark. Perhaps it's the layers of clothing he affects, the black cashmere duster that falls to his rubber soled black shoes, but he looks heavier than she's ever seen him.

"Are you back?" she asks him. 

"No, not really."

Snow flakes are gathering on the brim of his hat. Soon it will be too dark to see.

"Do you have another name from the blacklist for me?"

Red shakes his head.

"No. Our next subject will take some time. I'll need to be more available to you than I can be at present."

So then what is he doing here?

He's staring forward also. She wants to reach over and take his gloved hand in her own. She wants to make a fist and slam it down hard on the top of his thigh.

A singular thought strikes her.

She has steaks, sides, chocolate cake in her apartment fridge, which usually holds only milk, juice, and whatever fresh fruit is on sale at the corner grocery that week. Courtesy of an attempt at date number two with Kenneth Alan Moore, an old friend of Ressler's, who canceled by text this morning.

On their first, blind date, Liz had enjoyed trading war stories with the handsome blond man. She tends to forget that she's seen more action in her short time with the bureau than many ten year veterans. Apparently, she intimidated him.

"Come up and see my new apartment. I'll cook you dinner," she says to Red, still staring forwards.

He turns his head, tilts it in that familiar, ever so affected way.

"This is unexpected, Lizzie," he murmurs.

"For me too," she tells him honestly. In the past, he's just invited himself into her space. "Yes or no?"

In answer, he stands promptly, brushing snow off his lapels, then holds out one arm to her.

"Lead on," he tells her, waving dismissively at his driver. The black car pulls away, is lost in the evening traffic. She didn't catch the plate.

Liz takes Red's arm.

"It's one block up, I'm on the fifth floor."

********

Red just meant to watch her from the car, as he has several times before, but something about the way Liz sits on the bench defeats him. He can tell he is becoming a memory, something sentimental. He needs her to engage fully with him when he returns, sharp and battle-ready and just a little off balance.

He has plans for the FBI, and Elizabeth Keen is crucial to every one of them.

"Once around the block, then stop back here," he tells his driver, a sharp faced man with the cold eyes of a killer and two fingers missing on his right hand. 

As they circle the block in the lightly falling snow, Red runs his fingers over the surface of the new laptop on the seat beside him.

It has been a good morning, for a change. He finally arranged the meeting with Aram Mojtabai, tying up several loose ends. Like Liz, the man still runs miles and miles whenever he has time. Ran himself into exhaustion. Red's taller, larger men in jogging clothes, running past the agent on either side, just grabbed him and ran him straight off the trail into the bushes, to where Red was waiting beside the ATV.

It was cold, but it wasn't a long conversation.

Red simply described how much Aram could do for his extended family, with the unique resources at Red's command. How much Red could in turn help Aram keep Agent Keen safe, by sharing information.

When he hesitated, Red pointed out gently that OPR had interrogated Aram repeatedly. Even now, he sometimes thinks Cooper still suspects him. Red, on the other hand, quickly and fully determined Aram was worthy of trust. In two minutes.

He's not particularly worried that the younger man will double-cross him. Anyone who can steal five million dollars so quickly has options. Aram could have just turned him down.

Red's confident that Aram's attraction to Liz is still one-sided. Liz simply doesn't look at her co-workers that way. As an added benefit, with Aram in his employ, the man's natural loyalty to Red will restrain him.

Liz is still sitting on the bench.

Red can handle Liz when she's angry, jealous, suspicious, needy. But sad, that just tears at him, in places he thought were scarred beyond any further feeling.

He gets out of the car.


	2. The Apartment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Liz shows Red her new apartment.

By the time they reach her building, the snow is falling heavily. She smiles at the doorman, and Red tips his hat.

They are silent in the elevator.

"Very nice" Red comments, as they alight in a richly carpeted hall, walk down to the end. Their footsteps make no sound.

Liz presses the keypad on the door without bothering to shield her code from his watching eyes. Flipping on the lights, she ushers him into the apartment, throws the deadbolt, shrugs out of her coat, dumps her weapon in the basket on the small table by the door.

"Small, but well laid out" Red approves, looking around the sitting room which has long drapes covering the windows on two sides, a low modern fireplace, a cushiony, tweedy couch flanked by low, mid-century modern tables adorned with brass lamps. A small flat screen television is perched on a carved wooden chest against the wall, tethered to a cable.

As he removes his long coat, stuffing his gloves and two scarves into his pockets, she hangs her coat in the coat closet to the side of the door. Passes him a wooden coat hanger, takes a surreptitious whiff of his coat as she slots it away beside her own. A new cologne, with odd hints of jasmine.

"Care to give me the tour?"

Liz crosses the room and flips on the gas so the fireplace glows with warmth.

"I was lucky to get the corner unit. The view, the light - they're why I chose this place."

Red strolls through the dining nook, past the small round table draped with a gleaming white cloth and already set for two, to the kitchen and flips on the overhead light. 

It's an expensive little space, with high end appliances and inlaid marble counter tops. Bare counter tops, only a small six cup coffee maker to break up the expanse of stone.

"One bedroom?" asks Red, turning from the kitchen with a note of challenge in his eyes.

Liz pushes the door open, stands in the doorway so all he can do is peer over her outstretched arm.

There's not much to see. Her new bed, on a metal frame because she hasn't saved enough yet for a proper wooden bed frame.

It's neatly made with a thick, dark blue comforter and matching shams, bought so hopefully after she thought her first date with Kenneth went well.

Liz never seems to get past the first date, no matter which of her friends or colleagues sets her up. And she'll only accept an invitation from someone she can be sure is real. Not an acquaintance. It has to be someone they've known for years. A man whose existence she can be sure precedes her interest in the FBI.

Matching nightstands hold a modern LED reading light and a stack of library books. 

A door at the far side of the room leads to her bathroom. It's clean, she spent a full hour scrubbing it last night, but there's nothing there he needs to see.

"It's small, but it's all mine."

She pulls the bedroom door closed. 

"Very nice" says Red, lifting off his hat and looking around as if trying to decide where to set it. "You did mention dinner?"

"Yes."

Liz turns on the gas grill in the center of the big range top, pulls out the sides she cooked the night before and stacks the glass dishes holding mashed potatoes, spinach, and mushrooms side by side in the microwave.

"You are prepared," Red comments, leaning on one elbow against the kitchen counter, his eyes on the built in wine rack that holds a single, lonely bottle of Beaujolais.

"No, not that one. I have something I've been saving."

Liz pulls open a cupboard door to reveal low empty shelves, drops gracefully to a squat to pull out a heavy wooden crate tucked at the back. As she heaves it up onto the counter, she hears Red click his tongue in reproach.

She doesn't need his help, thank you very much.

The bottles are nestled safely together. She carried this crate into the apartment herself.

"Sam left them for me with his cousin in Nebraska," she says, stepping back. 

Red lifts out a bottle, turns it reverently to read the year.

"Oh, Lizzie, this is ... this is quite unexpected."

It's not often she can impress the Concierge of Crime.

"Open it for us, please, and I'll get the steaks on."

"It really needs to breathe," he protests, unerringly pulling open the correct drawer to locate her bottle opener.

Liz salts and peppers the steaks, claps them cold on the glowing grill, turns the vent fan to high.

"Seven minutes" she says, pausing to watch him pour himself a small glass, swirl the dark red wine at an angle. 

"You're quite efficient in the kitchen," he says, passing her a glass of wine.

They stare at each other for a moment. Tom was the cook.

"You do know that I would delight in ... ramen ... if you cooked it with your own hands, Lizzie," he pronounces, looking down into his wine glass.

Sometimes, she wonders if Red can read her mind.

"I can run down to the corner store and get some, if you'd like?" she offers. She's not going to admit that she has several packages of shrimp flavor stuck behind her boxes of cereal and oatmeal.

He smiles and shakes his head, takes a tiny sip of his wine. Swirls it in the glass again.

She can tell he's thinking about Sam.

Liz flips the steaks, punches time on the microwave, carries the salad bowl and chilled plates to the table.

Red doesn't comment, just takes a seat in one of the two dining nook chairs and tells her three shocking political anecdotes in a row as she finishes cooking, carries the food to the table.

"Help yourself."

Red pulls a lighter from his trouser pocket and lights the tall white candles in the silver holder. Liz shuts off the kitchen lights.

She's glad she spent the extra money for aged steaks.

Red eats his way gracefully but steadily through everything she's prepared.

She takes small bites, watching him from under her lashes. Enjoying his clearly edited stories of his recent world travels. He's making every effort to be charming, and she can't help but bask in the attention.

He's definitely heavier, his cleanly shaved face is fuller, the weary wrinkles at the corner of his eyes more pronounced as the evening goes on. She watches his shoulders drop as he unwinds, millimeter by millimeter.

They take their cake to sit on the couch in front of the fire. Liz kicks off her shoes and tucks her feet under her, turning to face Red. 

He's still in his suit coat and tie.

She remembers him six months ago in his shirtsleeves, collar open, tan and so much better rested.

"Where are you sleeping, Red?"

He shrugs, sets his empty dessert plate on the end table, lifts his wine glass and cradles it in his hands, eyes on the fire.

"Here and there, never the same place twice."

He turns his head, gives her a tight smile.

"In the car, sometimes."

She widens her eyes just slightly. He answers, with a wry twist of his lips, then looks back at the fire for a second, then allows his head to fall backwards against the back of the couch. His eyes close, thick pale eyelashes fanning his cheeks.

"I've spent more than enough time for a lifetime in Alabama."

He's such an infuriating man. 

"Stay here tonight. I"ll take the couch." Liz gestures at the closed door to her room. "Clean sheets. I promise."

"Why, Lizzie?"

Because he's clearly exhausted.

Because she's been alone too much. Because she's missed him.

Because, god help her, she wants to fall asleep in her new bed tomorrow night knowing he's been the first man to sleep there. As if his presence will cast some magical spell of protection over her.

"It's one night, Red."

His eyes are still closed, but she watches him swallow, his Adam's apple clearly visible, his neck exposed and vulnerable. The line of his jaw firms. 

"You can buy me breakfast tomorrow before you leave."

"Very well." He's on his feet suddenly, striding quickly toward the bedroom door.

"Wait. Let me get my nightclothes."

Liz hurries to the closet, collects her robe and nightgown.

Red is beginning to undress already, shucking his coat onto the foot of the bed, hands busy with his tie.

She really hasn't thought this through.

"Two minutes, Red."

She shuts the bathroom door behind her, uses the toilet, brushes her teeth with one hand as she fumbles into her nightclothes with the other. A long cream colored cotton night gown with long sleeves, and her blue plaid robe with matching scuffs.

When she emerges from the bathroom, Red's in bed, covers up to his chin, eyes obstinately closed even when she wishes him goodnight. The pile of clothing at the foot of the bed is neatly folded. His shoes are lined up on the floor at the foot of the bed.

Liz stuffs her clothing onto an empty shelf in the closet and slides it closed. She turns toward the bed, hesitates.

"Good night, Lizzie." 

His deep voice is hoarse, almost pained. No longer charming at all.

She shuts the bedroom door behind her, leaving Red in darkness.


	3. Reverie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Red is awake. V. short chapter.

Red lies very still, as if time itself will slow down, his whole life spiraling towards this moment, then pausing.

He doesn't belong in her clean, comfortable new bed. In her life. He knows that, knows he could be the death of her, knows he's already turned her feet so far off the path she intended for herself that he's no better than his enemies.

In this weary dark, where he doesn't dare sleep for fear of nightmares, his imagined gifts to her seem so hollow.

He said he would make her famous. He didn't mean infamous.

Her reputation as a profiler is gone forever. She married a spy, a plant, an assassin.

He saved her from her false husband. Which broke her heart. Everything in this apartment is new. She's even given away her dog.

And Sam. How can Liz still look at him, knowing he saved for himself the bittersweet joy of that last visit with Sam, knowing he denied her that one last embrace?

Whatever he's done in his efforts to keep her safe, Liz is no longer the bright-eyed girl, the glowing young wife, the brilliant agent with her whole career in front of her.

Red has killed those versions of Liz, cultivated the tough, hard-eyed woman who kills when she needs to. A fitting partner for the difficult choices that will face them together.

It's so much more than he deserves. So much less than he desires, in his most secret heart.

No. He won't sully her bed with even the thought of what he knows can never be possible.

Raymond Reddington mocks his own foolish fantasies mercilessly, until finally, it's just less painful to think about strategies, and plots, and the faces of the men he needs captured or killed, like an endlessly unwinding ball of string, one answer leading inexorably to the next.


	4. For the First Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Liz and Red. M now and onwards.

Two hours later, Liz is sitting on the couch, wrapped in her spare comforter, courtesy of the hall closet. She stares at the closed bedroom door. She needs the bathroom again.

She really needs to stop and think before she speaks.

There was a time, not so very long ago, before Red left the country, that she was almost sure his obsession with her was sexual. His long looks, the singular warmth of his gaze, the little touches he doled out so sparingly. Early on, she had profiled Raymond Reddington as pathologically self-disciplined, all his affectations and sybarite amusements, even his self-amused little stories, just cover for his cold, cold will. 

Liz can deal with sexual obsessions. She deals with them every day, at work.

Or she thought she could, until she met Red. He intrigued her, made her want him, then retreated. Over and over again. She assumed it was a dance, that he was waiting for her to beg. Saving her life, making her famous, teaching her about the criminal mind, his version of gifts laid at her feet.

Then he disappeared.

She can't just sit here, mooning over him like a spoiled child. She's been trying to move on; it's not her fault that all the men she's met so far have been uncooperative.

Liz rises, tiptoes to the door of her room, slowly, silently turns the handle. Sneaking into her own bedroom feels so odd.

Red is lying on his back, covers pulled up tight to his chin, on the side of the bed nearest the door. His eyes open as she enters the room. They follow her as she crosses to the bathroom.

"It's just me," she says softly.

He doesn't respond.

She enters the bathroom and shuts the door before turning on the light.

Nothing appears to have been touched, but she has a suspicion he's gone through every drawer, every cabinet.

She rinses her face, runs her brush through her sleek dark hair. Examines herself in the round, wall-mounted mirror, a small, tired woman with sad eyes. She looks so much better wearing make-up.

She shuts off the light, waits a moment for her eyes to adjust, then starts to tip toe back through the bedroom. 

Red's eyes are still open. She pauses, wets her lips.

"Can't sleep?" she asks him.

"One becomes accustomed to the presence of armed bodyguards," he responds softly.

"There's a Glock in the nightstand ..."

He interrupts her.

"And a shotgun in the closet. I know, Lizzie."

He sighs. She watches the covers over his chest rise and fall.

He's in her bed. Oh god, all the times she's fantasized about just this moment, and now he's just lying there. And she's going to go back out into the living room, and sleep in a knot of unresolved sexual tension on her couch. Like a long time couple who have been fighting, and aren't ready to make up again yet.

She told him she would sleep on the couch. Even so, Red almost went back out into the snow.

Liz offers him all she can. "I'll stay awake and play bodyguard, if you want. Anyone who wants you, will have to get through me." Want may not have been the best word. She tries again. "I'll keep you safe, Red."

He blinks up at her, his gaze softening almost imperceptibly.

"Come to bed, Lizzie."

His voice is deep and warm.

She just stares at him. Her secret fantasy, come true.

Well, in her daydreams there were kisses, and embraces, and some very flowery, graceful compliments first, but still.

He's in her bed. He'll be gone again in the morning. Raymond Reddington lives a very dangerous life. This may be her only chance.

Liz knows she's being completely irrational as she takes a step forward, stares down into Red's now somewhat quizzical expression.

She unbelts her robe, drops it to the floor.

"Lizzie?"

Very deliberately, slowly, she leans forward, gathers the long skirt of her cotton nightgown, pulls the whole thing up and over her head in one movement. Drops it on top of her robe.

Red's mouth falls open. Somehow, she imagined his response differently. He looks more flabbergasted than aroused.

She leans over, presses their mouths together as she climbs onto the bed, straddles his hips. His kisses are soft and yielding as she greedily explores his warm, wet mouth for the very first time. He tastes like her toothpaste.

Liz braces herself on one hand, lifts the other to stroke the smooth skin of the top of his head, down to the contrasting bristle of his very short haircut. What remains of Red's hair is softer, finer than she expected, like plush.

His hands slide from her bare back to her hips, his thumbs curving backwards, lightly stroking the ridge of her hipbones.

Liz gives him one more long, deep kiss, then pulls away, tugs at the covers.

Instead of helping, Red interlaces his hands behind his head, elbows wide, and lies there watching her as she kneels above him.

Moving from one knee to the other, Liz pulls the covers down enough that she is kneeling on the bed sheet. Red is wearing a white t-shirt and boxers. She somehow expected he would sleep in the nude.

"Lizzie?"

There's a note of warning in Red's voice now.

Liz pushes up the soft fabric of his shirt, runs both hands from his waist to his collarbone. The scant hair feathering his belly and chest is soft as well.

She reaches down and tugs at the waistband of his boxers, expecting him to lift his hips. Her knuckles curl into the soft flesh at his waist. His skin is so warm.

"Lizzie. Enough."

What?

Red reaches out, slides his hands from her shoulders all the way down her wrists, holds them tight as she pulls the front of his boxers down. 

He's only half-hard, the heavy lazy curve of him all she could want and more.

"Lizzie. You don't want me. Not like this."

"I don't need flowery compliments, Red."

"What?"

As his brows rise in confusion, she uses her leverage to move her wrists apart.

Dips swiftly to take him into her mouth.

"Oh." 

There's a world of wonder in that little exclamation. It's all she needs.

Tom was a demanding, even critical lover. And given her the depth of her inexperience when they met, Liz was so grateful for anything, everything, he was willing to teach her in bed. She's as good at this now as she is at profiling.

"Oh, Lizzie."

He's panting now, already so hard, so close.

She wants Red inside of her. She can't believe she's waited this long. It must be how good he tastes, the way his breath is coming so fast now. The absolute joy of learning him with her tongue. 

On all fours, Liz lifts her head.

"Condoms in the drawer," she says, holding his eyes, so dilated they appear black.

He reaches over, pulls the drawer of the nightstand open. Pulls out a foil packet. 

Shakes his head slowly, then tears it open with his teeth.

"You're certain about this, Lizzie?"

She crawls forward, glares down at him.

As soon as the condom is on she lowers herself down on Red, pins him to the bed, moves with the rhythm she needs so badly. 

He feels so, so good. She can't believe how long it's been, she can't believe she spent years with a man who she only now realizes was just not enough for her. In so many ways.

Red is perfectly responsive, everything he's doing with his hips only bringing her closer. His eyes are closed now, as if he's trying to hold back. His mouth is open.

Liz leans down, matches his breathing, then kisses him, whispers between kisses.

"Now, Red, please now."

He obliges spectacularly, his hands moving from her hips to her breasts as he surges beneath her. His response is perfect, creating a timeless feedback loop of nerve-searing pleasure.

They are exactly in sync. That's never happened to her before. 

It feels like nothing on earth.

She collapses, shuddering, onto Red's chest. Buries her nose in that soft, soft hair, inhales.

His right arm is holding her gently yet firmly against him. Red reaches down, pulls the comforter up over them both with his left.

"Sleep, Lizzie."

"You sleep," she mumbles. Everywhere their bodies touch, she's warm. She wants to melt against his skin, become a permanent part of him. Safe. Just the smell of him means she's safe.


	5. He Came to Say Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Red plans his next move.

Raymond Reddington lies very still in the darkness, holding Elizabeth Keen cuddled against him. She's asleep already, but not deeply.

He needs her to stay asleep. He needs to think.

This afternoon was clearly a mistake, but what a mistake. Red knew he was taking a chance, but he wanted to see her one more time before leaving the country. 

Harold Cooper is going to be very, very unhappy with him. There will be no more blacklisters for quite a while.

Red closes his eyes and tries very hard to think about his next move. The warm weight of Lizzie, the familiar scent of her hair, but most of all the pungent new scent of her body. It's a horrible cliche, but Lizzie smells like home.

Once she's deeply asleep, he'll roll her to the other side of the bed, slip away before dawn. 

Red wants more than anything to buy her breakfast, but he can't look into her eyes.

He only invited her into his bed, her bed to be precise, to sleep at his side. That long cream gown fooled him, so deceptively innocent. Red had no intention, no expectation, that anything more could be possible. Not with her. Not now. Maybe not ever. He can't let her know.

Red knows he looks like hell. He's not sleeping well, he's been ill with an undiagnosed tropical ailment that he's pretty sure only time will cure, he's been in fights that would have been punishing ten years ago.

Alan Fitch's death has changed everything, as the loss of one piece transforms the chessboard.

Red needs to retreat, lick his figurative and literal wounds, forge new alliances.

If he takes Lizzie with him, if she would even agree to abandon her entire life, be willing to live out of a go bag, she'll come to hate him. She has never seen him weak.

If he leaves her like this, possibly never to return, it may destroy her.

Either way, all the effort of months, the careful maneuvering, the deaths, all wasted. No more task force, no more tracing blacklisters.

Dembe was furious with him for coming back. He's already lying on a beach in Australia, interviewing assassins.

Lizzie's mouth on him. The way she rode him so skillfully, timed her own responses so perfectly. There must be more to her past than he ever suspected. Maybe this was just once, a whim. For pleasure, for goodbye. Red tries to tell himself that, tries to imagine being happy, drinking on a beach in Australia. It's completely unconvincing.

He can't stay, they'll both die slowly, in horrible ways that he can barely contemplate for himself, despite everything he deserves in this life.

Carefully, Red reminds himself how often he's thought about Lizzie, how he's adored her, idolized her, basked in any small indication that she might be returning his affection. That's how he treats every woman he's ever been with. He lies alone, turning them over in his mind, until his images are more real than the actual interactions they have together. Until they speak and act the way he wants them to, because it's the only path he has left open for them.

He needs to leave this place, this bed, this woman. Leaving is what he does, who he is.

Better. He can work with that.

Raymond Reddington lies very still in the darkness, holding Elizabeth Keen cuddled against him. Trying to force himself to let her go.


	6. Again

Liz wakes in darkness, cuddled against Red, her arms and legs cramping from the unaccustomed angles that clinging to him has created.

She sleeps on her side, in a knot that would be fetal if her arms weren't always so tense.

He's on his back, and somehow, despite his smooth, shallow breaths, she knows he's awake. She wanted him to sleep. She's been so selfish.

"Red?" she whispers.

"Yes, Lizzie?" His voice is so deep, so low. The very definition of intimate.

"I can go sleep on the couch, if I'm keeping you awake?"

She offers, but she doesn't release her grip on him. Her legs are twined around his, her arm flung over his chest. He's pulled the t-shirt back down, but at least the boxers are gone.

"No, please stay."

She slides her hand down his side to his hip, feels the big muscles of his thigh tense, pets the soft flesh of his belly over and then under the thin cotton of his shirt.

Liz can't help but think how wonderful it is that she could never, not for a moment, imagine she is in bed with Tom, when she's touching Red.

He rolls on his side towards her, moving away from her hand.

"I have to leave you, Lizzie."

She knows that. 

Liz reaches up to stroke his face. His cheek feels faintly stubbled, and she touches those stiff little hairs with the tips of her fingers, feeling for the high curve of his cheekbones, lined at the corners of his eyes, then smooth. Finding the stiffer scratch of his sideburns with the very tips of her nails.

"I wish I could hide you away somewhere," she whispers back. 

She's submerged in the smell of Red's body, his breath, the unfamiliar detergent scent of his shirt. 

"Flattering, but impractical" he murmurs back at her. 

Slowly, allowing Red plenty of time, she presses her mouth to his. The sour taste of sleep dissolves as their tongues meet, as Liz slides her hand lower to find Red already hardening for her. 

"Your turn on top" she whispers.

She wouldn't have believed it could be better, but it was.

***  
Red shifts just enough that he is no longer lying with his full weight on Liz. She moves with him, sleepily pressing as close as she could. He feels amazingly unstrung.

Here in the darkness, they are just a man and a woman who want each other. All his doubts and concerns about the vast gaps between them seem immaterial. They fit together; more than fit. Red was a young man in a white uniform the last time he felt so unselfconscious, so at ease with a new lover.

That is a very bad sign.

He can't start thinking of Elizabeth Keen as his lover.

She's been in a singular category, all his own. The little girl he saved. The woman who can give him a second chance.

Red doesn't have friends, but occasionally, when he judges the risk to be less than that of his rising, distracting frustration, he judiciously takes a lover. Never for more than six months. Usually much less. Just enough to leech out the worst of his somatic despair, and keep going.

He feels so good after this one night, he should be leaving her now. 

Not lying motionless, held tight in her arms, relaxed, tired, sticky, and still looking forward to the morning light. To the possibility of loving her again. 

His mind lingers on her sweet words.

Red is the one who hides people away. It's one of the things he's best at, is known for in the criminal underworld he moves through with such hard earned confidence. That Liz wants a slice of time alone with him, after all her prior anger and resistance and mistrust, a mistrust that god help him, he encouraged, tempts him so badly to oblige her.

He can buy them an island, complete with supplies to last a hundred years.

But his life will crash down in a hundred days if he goes incommunicado like that. Crash down on Dembe, on Aram, on all the tenuous networks of allies he's so carefully trying to sustain right now.

Red is not so foolish as to imagine that Liz wants anyone at the bureau to know about this little episode. She sweeps her living space obsessively for cameras, recording devices, any sign of involuntary entry. Leaves little traps to catch the presence of any intruder. He watched her the previous evening, noted the continuing legacy of the apple man.

That's what will keep her safe. Caution, even paranoia. The sixth sense for danger that has saved him so many times.

Why doesn't he feel anything now but tenderness and peace?

With an astonished sense that he does know what else he's feeling, Red slides into the deepest sleep he's had in months, his lips pressed into tangled dark hair.


	7. Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Red and Liz. Includes a shower.

Red wakes to the smell of coffee. 

For a moment, he can't remember where he is, but that's normal. Then it all comes back to him.

Sending his car away. Dinner. Lizzie.

Oh god, he meant to be long gone by now. He needs a shower, he needs to shave, he needs to fly to Australia.

"If you're not awake, you should be."

Liz comes in with two mugs of coffee, sets one on the table beside Red, crosses to the small window to adjust the angle of the blinds slightly. From the color of the light, it seems to be another gray, snowy day.

As Red props himself up in bed with all the pillows, then takes a sip of his coffee, Liz comes to sit on the bed beside him. She's wearing her blue plaid robe from the night before, loosely belted so that it hangs open, almost revealing her breasts.

"Delicious," Red comments, watching her drink coffee with evident enjoyment. She has both hands cupped around the warmth of the mug. 

He's really got to get this cup of coffee down fast. There is absolutely no reason to be mentally cataloging the fact that they both drink strong, dark coffee as yet another sign that they belong together.

Whatever his body wants, they belong on different continents.

"I need a shower," says Liz. "Want to join me?"

It takes Red a long moment to dive to the bottom of his memory and pull out the last occasion he showered with a woman, more than twelve years ago. Tangier. And hadn't that ended badly?

It is the worst idea ever. 

"Get the water started," says Red. He takes another sip of his coffee as she heads for the bathroom, ridiculously delighted by her little bounce of joy on the bed at his assent.

***

Liz is already in the shower when Red peers into the bathroom.

Moment of truth. Is he going to let her see his body, touch him, in the bright light of day?

Liz doesn't need to be a trained profiler to recognize that Red's layers of perfectly pressed suit, vest, and jacket reflect a certain body modesty. Even at home alone, late at night, he sits in his shirtsleeves and slacks.

Unless that's all been an act for her benefit, to lull her into considering him even more barricaded physically than she has been herself?

"Come on, Red, we don't have unlimited hot water."

Well, her building probably does, but he doesn't know that.

Red smiles at her somewhat sheepishly.

If he has changed his mind, she's going to scream. Soundlessly, in her mind, but still.

Red steps naked into the bathroom, shuts the bathroom door behind him, joins her in the shower.

Liz puts her arms around him, holds him for a moment, the hot water spilling, overflowing between their bodies.

Oh yes.

He kisses her as her fingers explore the old burn scars that pattern his back. Draws back to look with concern into her eyes.

"Lizzie?"

"Arrest photos" she responds, pressing their lower bodies together. "They feel interesting, can I look?"

Gravely, he turns his back, bending his head a little as she explores the worst of his scars.The soft curves of his big shoulders are freckled. She slides her hands down to his hips, then lower.

He's been beaten, stabbed, sliced, shot. Touched by fire more than once. 

He's beautiful. 

She runs her hands possessively up and down his sides, exploring the angles of both fat and muscle so perfectly concealed by his clothes.

"Is there soap, Lizzie?"

Red turns his head and looks over his shoulder at her, his eyes warming as he takes in the blatant appreciation in her gaze.

"I have body wash."

Red gives a little sniff. He's adorable, doing his dignified act in her shower.

"No, it's unscented, see?"

The bathroom is filled with steam by the time they step out of the shower. And here she thought that little tiled bench was convenient for shaving her legs.

She'll never look at it the same way again.

She hands Red a large white towel before taking one for herself.

"My hair is going to take a while," she warns him, pulling her blow dryer from the basket under the sink.

Red is dry already. He has wrapped his towel around his waist.

"Would you like help with your hair, Lizzie?"

There is so much amusement in his deep voice. She'd be willing to tolerate much more than whatever he's got planned for her hair to hear it again. And again.

"Yes, please, Red."

Her hair soon looks better than it did the last time she had it cut and blown dry. By a professional stylist.

Honestly, if NASA really wants to land astronauts on Mars, they should just hire Red. The man could probably design and build a functional and inexpensive spaceship, if he only felt like it.

He's grinning at her over her shoulder in the mirror as he neatly winds up the dryer cord.

"I need to shave. Is there more coffee?"

Liz nods, ducks around him for his kiss. Then she hurries to the kitchen in her towel, reluctant to lose even a moment of Red's company.


	8. In Which Liz Has an Idea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Liz and Red. Plot, also. Yes, plot.

Liz sits cross-legged on the toilet, watching him shave.

Red takes extra care not to cut himself with the little pink plastic razor he found in a package of ten under the sink, humming to himself as his ordinary face appears from beneath the stubble.

Graying stubble. It's not a good look.

Liz is watching him a little dreamily.

Red almost makes a comment, takes it back. So grateful to his interior editor, awake now and back on the job. No, of course she hasn't spent much time watching a man shave, not considering that horrible fuzz Tom affected. Or has she?

It's not the sort of thing one asks about while in the process of catching blacklisters.

Red realizes his gaze has sharpened by the challenging response in Liz's big blue eyes.

"Yes?" she asks, tilting her head in a momentary echo of one of his own mannerisms. He can't tell if it's deliberate, mocking, or unconscious.

There's no point in asking the question, anyway. He'll be gone, and whatever experiences she's had before, she'll surely have had many more by the time he returns. If he prevails.

She'll probably be dating someone like that handsome blond friend of Ressler's. Brave and honest, and just the right age for her.

Red finishes shaving, then dries his face on a hand towel, hiding his eyes for a moment. He feels Liz put her arms around him from behind, press against him, the large towel wound around her scratchy in contrast to the soft smooth skin of her arms.

She lays her cheek against his back, presses her lips absently to a particularly horrific scar. A melted bubble of flesh.

"I have an idea, Red" she says. He looks in the mirror, but she's so tiny that she's hidden behind him, only her arms and hands visible. Her fingertips stroke his skin as she embraces him, as if she's constantly reassuring herself that he's real.

"Yes, Lizzie?" he asks, watching her touch him in the mirror. Her arms are much stronger than when he saw her last, the muscles clearly defined. She has lovely small hands, terrible taste in nail polish. 

"What if we went into Witness Protection, together?"

Red stands there silent, not able to believe what he's hearing.

"We could smoke out your enemies, one by one. Some of them have to be blacklisters, right?"

Red nods, knowing Liz can feel the movement.

"The FBI can guard us from a distance, move in when needed. So that spares your people, too. Maximizes resources."

For a moment Red entertains the fantasy.

"Liz, no one will believe that Raymond Reddington entered Witness Protection."

Liz releases him, comes to stand by his side. They are watching each other in the mirror now, as if somehow the steamy glass can mediate the distance which hovers, ready to separate them.

"We won't make that widely known. Just leak our location to selected persons. They can assume what they want."

Liz looks confident, even excited. The way she does when Red hands her a new lead and she runs with it.

"And why would I have done this?"

Liz gives him an impish grin.

"Your young girlfriend from Nebraska begged you?"

She's never begged him for anything but the truth. Which he never fully gives her. Just the pieces that lead her where he needs to go.

He'd better keep his mind on that, rather than her laughing eyes. His subconscious was so sneaky that evening, as if he could prime her with just a hint by saying girlfriend, then horrify her, in case she responded, by saying daughter. Trying to protect him. Trying to protect them both.

"You'll have to tell Cooper. And Ressler."

That should put an end to this.

Liz gives him a relieved nod, her smile is so broad and white. She looks like he's just given her the best present ever.

"Of course, Red."

She wants them to find out? To know that she's sleeping with the monster? Is there some other, darker reason for her suggestion?

Liz presses a kiss to the top of his shoulder.

"I'm going to get dressed. You owe me breakfast."

It seems he's agreed. If the bureau approves this completely insane idea, it will turn all his strategies on their head. Maybe that's a good thing. Maybe what he needs to do is be flexible. Play along, see if lying in wait can be as effective as hunting down the far reaches of the web.

Dembe will be so upset.


	9. Breakfast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Red and Liz. Red does buy her breakfast.

Liz assumed that Red would take her to the indifferent little French bakery half a block down, or the very expensive boutique hotel cafe a block past that.

Instead, he summons the car and they drive for ten minutes to a hole in the wall diner.

There's small crowd waiting to be seated, but she and Red are ushered into a booth as soon as they arrive. The seats are red vinyl and the table between them is Formica.

"Coffee?"

The petite waitress plunks cups down and fills them, takes their order without taking notes.

Red orders an enormous combo plate. Eggs, potatoes, both bacon and sausage. Liz orders a muffin and fruit.

Red's being his ordinary, charming self with the waitress, glancing around the noisy restaurant with evident pleasure. Very much the Raymond Reddington she knows. He hasn't touched her since they left the apartment, except that they did sit rather close together in the back seat of the car.

He launches into a monologue about the last time he was here, when a famous actress created a scene by breaking up with a minor politician with unexpected histrionic tendencies. 

Liz is so relieved. It's one thing to be alone with Red in her own space. It's another to try and sustain that level of intensity in a public setting.

"Not as good as yours, but acceptable."

Red is talking about the coffee. Liz looks down to see she's almost finished her cup. The waitress is filling it within moments.

"Thanks."

Liz smiles at Red, almost experimentally. It's as if the previous night has erased part of her memory, and she has to fumble her way back to Agent Keen. Who does not beam fatuously at criminals.

"Yes, Lizzie?"

His eyes are warm and intent. He's back in his suit and coat, minus his tie. His shirt is unbuttoned just enough that she can tell he's pulled on his rumpled t-shirt as well, ignoring her offer to run a small load of laundry.

He's all put back together. He's leaving.

Their plates arrive, saving her from the hard lump in her throat. Red's food looks delicious, hot and perfectly cooked. Her muffin is enormous, warm, freshly baked. The fruit is tiny strawberries, perfectly sweet.

Red eats as he continues to talk, pausing at appropriate moments for Liz to prompt him to go on. As if he knows that this ordinary interaction is more reassuring to her that any overt display of affection.

He talks, she listens.

It makes her wonder about the times he's needed to hear what she has had to say. Those are important data points. She'll think about them later.

Red pulls out his wallet to pay after more than an hour. A long sheaf of soft Italian leather in a rich coffee color, stuffed fairly full.

On impulse, Liz holds out her hand.

With a lift of his brows, he hands it to her. Blinks slightly as he watches her go through it.

Quite a lot of money, in three different currencies. Apparently, his current name is Mumar Farouk. Or Angelo Moretti. He's tanned darker than she's ever seen him in one drivers license photo. In the other, she could swear he's wearing mascara, and one of his ears sticks out at an odd angle.

"Yes?"

"Just checking for photos of other women," she says, closing the wallet and handing it back to him. No photo of her, either.

"Angelo's divorced," he returns dryly. "And Mumar isn't interested in women."

Right.

"Lizzie, I'll be impossible to reach on Monday. You'll need to call me Tuesday evening, after eight, or Wednesday. If Cooper gives his approval, we must be gone by Thursday, at the latest."

Red rises, waits for her to gather her things and precede him from the cafe. The cook comes out of the kitchen as they are leaving, collects an embrace and a kiss on the cheek from Red. She's an older, heavier version of their waitress; her dark eyes scan Liz, tilt up as she smiles her approval.

Liz stands still, amazed, as the woman gives her upper arms a squeeze and then kisses her on each cheek.

"You, come back soon."

She thought they were being so discreet.

***

Red drops Liz at her apartment, orders the driver to pull away as soon as the doorman begins to greet her.

"Where to, boss?"

"The mountains. Somewhere quiet. No cell service."

They drive without speaking. After a few minutes, Red closes his eyes and leans his head back.

Liz can be very persuasive when she wants to be. She's an expert in psychology, behavior, motivation. She will be much more effective once she learns to automatically turn what she knows, into what others do not know. When she learns to think like a criminal as easily as she thinks like a profiler.

It's one of the qualities he's been trying to develop in her. He has a list of them. Red has so many lists.

Cooper is probably going to turn her down. It's expensive, risky. And it puts Liz, the least experienced member of his team, directly in harm's way. Over and over again.

Red trusts himself to keep them safe. But will Cooper?

Turning the issue over in his mind, trying to imagine what Liz will say or do, is so much more interesting than allowing himself to dwell on the faint hope that she will succeed. 

That prickles at his mind, causes his very full stomach to twitch ominously.

He slept, he actually slept, a full sleep cycle, in her arms. Without fear, without nightmares, without night sweats. Such grace.

Living with Liz, that would be completely different. There are parts of himself that Red has kept hidden even Dembe's all-seeing eyes. Or perhaps Dembe has deliberately turned his back.

But Red can't tell himself he doesn't want more nights of intimacy, passion, the way he feels ageless and powerful inside Lizzie in a way that goes so far beyond mere lust. 

He can't tell himself he doesn't want this unlikely slice of time she is offering him, because he wants it with every fiber of his being. 

The best he can manage is to keep reminding himself how very badly he will hurt when it's over.


	10. In Action

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Liz can be very effective, when she wants to be.

Liz is actually inside the lobby of her building, smiling past the doorman, before she realizes that she gave Red a brief nod, climbed out of the back seat of the car, and strode away without kissing him.

Without even thinking about kissing him.

Her mind is already completely focused on convincing Cooper, what to pack, how to juggle her credit cards to cash advance her rent while she's away.

The bureau will reimburse her eventually, but there's paperwork involved. Paperwork she may not be able to complete while living under cover.

Red didn't seem at all interested in kissing her, either. She'd have noticed that.

As Liz rides up the elevator to her apartment, lets herself into the space that suddenly feels so quiet, so empty, she tries to dismiss the sensation that something is off in her interactions with Red.

It's not that she expected him to be romantic, not exactly that, but something more convoluted. Something closer to, but not exactly, the question of why he didn't expect her to want something more romantic.

Tom made decoding certain emotional exchanges, especially interactions involving romance, seem so easy. He told Liz what she was feeling, and what he was feeling - he would even narrate the unspoken language of other couples in a whisper during movies or train rides or strolls in the park. But of course, Tom was a complete and utter liar, so maybe he was making his interpretations up as he went along, too.

She's so much better at the darker emotions.

Liz knows she's been on a slippery slope ever since she met Raymond Reddington, but this clear vision of herself as one of the monsters, irrevocably outside the normal range of human, is enough to make her curl up in the sheets that smell like Red, and cry herself into a tenuous sleep.

When she finally awakens, Liz spends hours at the gym. She works out again the next day. She'd go shooting as well, but the range is closed on Sunday, so she contents herself with throwing knives into the cork target she keeps stashed behind the dryer in her laundry closet.

She's still horribly inaccurate with her left hand; being ambidextrous isn't much help if you spend most of your time pretending to be right-handed. But she's improving. Her life may be spinning out of control, but if she goes down fighting, it will be with as much deadly force as possible.

Every time Liz starts to think of Red, she pushes the thought away. Focuses on Cooper, on what she's going to say at the Post Office.

But she doesn't wash her sheets.

***

"You're here bright and early this morning, Agent Keen." Harold Cooper greets her with a smile.

She's twenty minutes early, which is unheard of, and she's dressed very carefully, in one of her older suits, which hangs a little loosely on her figure since she's started running so much.

"I've heard from Reddington," Liz says, without preliminaries. "And he has something new to suggest."

Cooper ushers her into his office, closes the door, and motions her to a seat.

"Red has a dozen more blacklister names to provide to us, but he apparently has too many irons in the fire right now for our usual approach."

Cooper raises one eyebrow, and Liz shrugs.

"Sir, he wants us to arrange a series of safe houses, a sort of task force version of witness protection, so he can lure the blacklisters to him. So we can catch them."

Cooper looks very skeptical.

Liz folds her hands in her lap, strokes her scar. Her hands are out of Cooper's line of vision from where he's sitting behind his desk, but she knows he can read the movement of her shoulders.

"He wants us to protect him? Not his own people?"

"He's willing to cooperate with our cover stories, provide us with intel on what types of attacks to expect."

Cooper shakes his head. 

"He's constantly on the move. Has been for as long as we've been tracking him." He fixes his mild gaze on Liz. "What could possibly make him want to stay in one place for more than a day or two? How does he think we could possibly protect him?"

"Me," says Liz simply.

"You?"

"I'll go undercover with him, serve as liaison to the Task Force."

"I don't think you know what you're saying." Cooper pushes his chair back, rises to his feet. "We never had this little chat, Agent Keen."

Liz stays seated, holds Cooper's gaze. Allows the memory of Red's face in the shower, the way he shouted his pleasure in the small tiled space as the hot water turned both their bodies beyond slick, to fill her eyes.

Cooper stares down at her.

"If we can't arrange the safe houses, he's going to be out of touch again. Maybe for longer this time."

Cooper glares, and Liz tries to look properly serious and concerned again. Professional. They both know that without more names from Red, the task force will soon be disbanded.

"We have an opportunity now to close dozens, maybe hundreds of cases." Liz wets her lips. "That's why I joined the FBI. To catch criminals."

Cooper's eyes narrow, and she can see the words he's not saying written all over his face. 'Not to sleep with them.' The corners of his lips quirk briefly in disgust.

"You still have a long career ahead of you, Agent Keen ..."

Liz interrupts, but keeps her voice low. Respectful.

"Sir, we're not the only agency that can execute this plan."

Harold Cooper received a very substantial salary increase at the close of the previous year, based on the number of cases closed by the task force. He and his wife are building a vacation cottage in Arkansas, on a lake. On family property.

"You'd give up your career? Your badge?" To give him credit, he sounds honestly shocked.

Liz shrugs again.

"It's worth it, bringing closure to so many families. Preventing so many preventable crimes."

Cooper sits back down, heavily.

"Sir, if you authorize this new approach, you can evaluate our results after every placement. Shut it down if you don't believe it's working, or worthwhile."

Picking up a pen from his desktop, Cooper turns it between his fingers.

Liz could show him three quick little ways to improve his dexterity, speed up the slow turn of the pen, but she sits silently, allowing him to think.

"Sir, Red wants us in place at the first safe house by this Thursday."

"Four days?"

Liz nods.

"And he'll give us the name of the next blacklister?"

She nods again.

Cooper tosses the pen to the desktop, where it rolls up and then off the open pages of a thick report and almost falls to the floor.

"And sir?"

"Yes, Agent Keen?"

"I'd like to select the safe houses, the cover stories. Once you've approved the possible options."

"Not Reddington?"

Liz smiles confidently across the desk at Harold Cooper.

"I'll tell him we only have one option. I can see to it that he goes along with my choice. Without protest."

Cooper opens his mouth, then closes it, clearly thinking better of asking her exactly how she plans to guarantee that unlikely eventuality.

"I'll have choices for you by tomorrow morning," says Cooper. "Brief Ressler this afternoon, will you? He's going to be your handler, at least the first time."

Liz smiles, fighting to keep her smile from going awry. Already, it starts. 

What has she done? What has she done to her life? It's a tiny wail in the very back of her mind, but she's pretty sure it's growing louder.

"Thank, you sir." She rises, makes her way to the door. It's open, and she's almost in the hallway, when Cooper's voice follows her out.

"And Keen?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Don't get yourself killed."

She can hear his unspoken words again, this time in the grave tone of his voice. 'He's not worth it.'

Liz shakes her head a little helplessly and leaves to find Ressler.


	11. Doubts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It begins.

Red finally dozes, wakes as the car pulls into a Forest Service campground and parks, still idling. His driver pops the trunk, gets out, sets up the equipment on the scarred wooden picnic table nearest the car. Plugs it in.

"Looks good, boss."

Red opens the laptop. Starts the programs Aram gave him, in the correct order.

The satellite uplink comes online.

Red pulls phone numbers from his memory, takes a drink from the flask of scotch in the seatback pocket in front of him.

It's times like this that he misses Luli so much.

Red has been moving money into legitimate investments for many years, sometimes not laundering it directly so much as gradually allowing it to drift into subsidiaries that can be sold, renamed, purchase assets such as rural real estate where paper records can be lost or easily doctored. Once sold, that profit is ready for more traditional financial instruments.

But legitimate investments take much, much more time and care than illegal enterprises.

So many records, and tax forms, and in most cases there's incredibly dull research and ongoing monitoring involved.

Red is interviewing new brokers from a carefully selected list. His people provided him with ten names and complete background checks, and he's whittled them down to three.

The niece of a federal judge. The son of a senior partner, being groomed for great wealth. And a brilliant young man whose name does not match the face on his employment ID, just two years out of foster care.

All at different investment firms. All first employed within the last two years.

The programs are ready now. Completely secure video calls that look like ordinary software.

If these conversations go well, he'll give them a little money each, a few hundred thousand, and then arrange for them, and his accounts, to be watched very carefully.

Red pulls an ordinary pair of gold framed readers from his breast pocket and perches them on his nose, then adjusts the video monitor on the laptop to focus in on only the center of his face, cutting off part of the curve of his head.

He's a wealthy older man who's not good with technology. Actually, rather crotchety.

"May I speak with Miss April Bellis, please?"

He needs to see their faces, watch their eyes as they respond to him. If they turn out to be honest, to be any good at investing, he'll give them more funds.

If they turn out to be thieves, well, he's got a use for them in that case as well.

His driver stands outside as he makes the calls despite the bitter cold, smoking cigarette after cigarette.

Red makes him pick up the butts and throw them away before they leave the campground.

****  
Liz and Ressler stand waiting next to a white four wheel drive Expedition with Virginia plates in the Post Office garage.

Ressler gives her a look, hands in his pockets. They've run out of small talk. It's been a long day.

"He'll be here."

Red is more than an hour late.

They have a three hour drive ahead of them. Not including a stop for dinner, which may not be possible, at this point. Liz has two energy bars in her purse. She should have brought three.

A battered blue Camaro pulls into the parking garage too fast, bounces over a speed bump, pulls to a stop. Red gets out, leaving the keys in the ignition, the engine growling.

"That's your car?" asks Ressler, giving the Camaro a suspicious look.

"No, it's stolen," announces Red. He's in his customary suit, with a blue jacket over it, his fedora at a particularly jaunty angle. "Hello, Lizzie." 

Ressler puts his hands on his hips. He's wearing a dark silk mock top instead of his usual button down, heavy shoes with Vibram soles, no badge or gun visible.

"We need to get going."

Liz is already on her phone, summoning Aram. He can deal with the Camaro. They need to get on the road. She gives Red a little wave, not allowing her eyes to linger.

He's here. That's all that matters.

"I understand you've selected a small town location for our first adventure?" Red says to Ressler.

"Yeah, we'll fill you in on the road."

He pulls open the drivers door of the Expedition, swings up onto the high seat. Liz hurries around to the passenger side, still talking on her phone.

Red shrugs, climbs in back.

As they pull into traffic, Liz finishes her call to Aram with a warm "You keep safe, too."

Liz meets Red's eyes in the rear view mirror for a moment, then he looks out the window as if fascinated with the scenery. His mouth is pinched in that asymmetrical little way that she's come to identify as his version of a pout.

Well, she's not going to sit in the back with him and leave Ressler to drive without company for three hours, like a chauffeur.

"Why'd you steal the car?"

Ressler changes lanes again, not speeding, but driving aggressively. Liz looks over, watches his narrow eyes watching the road. Not bothering to watch Red's face as he responds.

"Well, Donald, the most correct answer to that question is, I didn't have time to buy it."

"Where's your driver?" asks Liz. That wasn't a question, so he wants to tell them something.

"In the emergency room." That sounds more like the truth.

"And your car?" Liz presses on.

"T-boned. Right into a city bus. Tonight's commute will be terrible."

Ressler speeds up a little.

"Were you followed?" he asks Red.

"Not for long," Red responds. The flat tone of his voice tells Liz that somewhere in the city behind them, Mr. Kaplan is busy.

"Tell me about our new life?" Red asks. He's sitting back in his seat, perfectly comfortable.

Ressler begins describing the small gun shop they will own and operate, the attached living space, the arrangements already in place for surviving the chemical attack that Red anticipates may occur once their target recognizes him. Masks. Oxygen. A panic room in the basement.

Liz lets the words wash over her. Their target is a fence with some very special customers. Customers who purchase memorabilia specific to violent crimes, crimes involving sexual abuse and torture. According to Red, sometimes those crimes are custom-ordered, to produce the desired memento mori.

Guns allegedly stolen from an FBI evidence room will serve as their introduction.

Their names will be Mr. and Mrs. Bateson. Ted and Angela. 

Liz shivers inwardly at the thought. Somehow, she hadn't put the pieces together in quite this way. She's in yet another pretend marriage. Ressler has appropriate clothes for them, the necessary keys and IDs. Rings. Liz rubs her ring finger, the sick feeling in her stomach growing. She used to fiddle with her rings. Tom's rings. 

"Chilly?" 

Ressler turns up the heat in the Expedition without waiting for a response. Liz looks down in her lap, refusing to meet Red's eyes in the rear view mirror.

What has she done?


	12. Ted and Angela

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Red and Liz arrive at the gun shop

They don't stop for dinner. Liz feeds Ressler both of the energy bars; her stomach is still unsettled, and Red waves the offer away with an air of disdain.

It's full dark, only a sliver of moon showing between intermittent clouds, when they pull into a gated townhouse complex.

Ressler thumbs a garage door remote, tosses it back into the center console as they pull into a two car garage beneath a narrow, three story town home. There's a older, mud-spattered Jeep parked next to the wall with sturdy hooks holding a mountain bike and a plastic kayak.

"My place" says Ressler, getting out of the car and unlocking the door to usher them up steep, narrow stairs.

Liz trails behind the men as they ascend two flights of stairs carpeted in a neutral Berber. On the upstairs landing sit two large black duffel bags.

"Spare bedroom. You can change in there," Ressler gestures at one of the two closed doors. "That's one's yours, Liz." He points at the duffel closest to the door.

"We'll change together," announces Red. He picks up both duffel bags, raises his brows at Liz. Right. She needs to open the door for him. For them.

Ressler's mouth is open. She'd been deliberately vague when she described the plan to him, back at the Post Office.

"It will help us get in character," she offers, stepping past him to the door. She can't look at his face again. 

Liz pushes the door open, flips on the over head light, and leads Red into the room. Shuts the door on Ressler. On her previous life.

"Hello, Mrs. Bateman. Angela."

Red smiles at her as he sets the bags down on the floor. The room is unfurnished, the narrow closet standing open and empty save for a few metal hangers. White paint, white blinds.

"Hi, Ted."

Liz tries for a light tone, fails utterly.

Red gives a little frown, tilts his head to one side, his fedora shadowing his eyes.

"Having second thoughts, are you?" he asks quietly. No judgment in his voice, as if he's just making conversation.

"Just nervous," Liz responds, then wishes she could take the words back.

"Let's get the worst of it over now, shall we?" says Red.

He bends and unzips her duffel bag, then his own. Fishes around and comes up with a square green leather box from his bag, and a larger, rectangular box from hers, quilted in blue brocade. Red sets them both on the floor, side by side, opens them and leaves the lids standing open.

"Here we go," he says, holding his right palm open towards her. Three rings sit in the hollow of his hand - a wide, dimpled gold band and a narrower one of the same design, both scratched and a little worn, plus a gold engagement ring with three small diamonds. It needs cleaning.

Liz licks her lips. She's suddenly both hungry and thirsty.

"Let me do that."

She lifts the wide band off his palm, reaches for his other hand. Slides the ring onto his finger as he watches, unresisting.

His hand is so warm. So deceptively soft, clean, unresponsive. His short, well-tended fingernails might never have raked across her skin, creating rills of delight.

Liz lifts his hand to her mouth, kisses the ring, his ring finger, her lips lingering.

There's a knock at the door.

"Everything all right in there?"

It's Ressler. He must be listening for the sound of them getting dressed.

Liz looks up into Red's eyes. Her throat is too full for her to speak.

"Yes, Donald, we'll be out in a moment."

Red takes her hand, slides her rings on without ceremony, examines them with a critical sniff.

"I do hope we're wealthier in our next placement, Lizzie" he says, turning her hand slightly to examine the small diamonds with another sniff. "You really deserve more carats than this."

It would serve no purpose to point out how much nicer her previous ring was, the one Tom gave her. Just because she would feel better for a good fight, doesn't mean Red deserves one.

Liz bends down to her duffel, starts pulling out clothes. They can hang their current clothes in the closet. She won't be needing her badge for a while, either.

"Let's just get dressed and get going, shall we?" she says.

Red shrugs and follows her lead.

***

When they emerge from the bedroom, Ressler gives them both a careful once over, then nods his approval.

"Keys are in the Jeep, and the back door key is on the ring," he says. "Your front door keys for the store are in the register, and that key is also on your ring."

"Only one set of keys?" asks Liz, as she once again follows them, this time down the stairs. Ressler goes first, carrying their bags. They have a few outfits to choose from, plus funds to buy more.

Red is enjoying the warmth of his new clothes, even if they are a little tight. Fleece lined camouflage pants, a new olive green thermal shirt and a wool sweater in the same hue, plus a heavy black jacket, obviously much worn, the cuffs a little frayed. At least his new shoes, with the rubber soles he prefers, fit correctly. And his cap, with earmuffs, is fleece lined as well.

Lizzie is layered in beige and brown with touches of orange, her puffy three quarter length down coat dark as coffee. She's wearing high winter boots, decorated with cuffs of fake fur. Or maybe it's just tattered rabbit. They are fortunately covered by the coat.

At least they have their own weapons.

Red is a little apprehensive about the condition of the gun shop, if these clothes are correct for their cover story.

And Ressler's been here a couple of days, paving the way. He would know.

"Why don't you drive, Angela?" says Red, walking around to the passenger side of the Jeep.

"I think Ted would be the one to drive.." begins Ressler.

"Not when Ted is drinking."

Red holds up the flask he has tucked into his inner coat pocket, as if in toast.

"Ted knows that if he gets arrested again, he's going to sit in jail until he rots," says Lizzie, holding out her arms to Ressler. He stares at her for a moment, hesitating, then pulls her into a brief hug. Red narrows his eyes as their bodies meet, cling. 

"I'll be watching every evening," Ressler says, releasing her and stepping backwards towards the door, his hand on the switch to activate the garage door opener.

"I have your number," returns Liz, hopping into the drivers seat and starting the Jeep. The engine rattles, then catches.

Red gives Ressler a jaunty little wave as they pull out of the garage.

Liz drives cautiously for the few blocks between the townhouse complex and their new home, the lights of the Jeep briefly illuminating the closed sign in the barred shop window, and pulls into the reserved space at their back door. An alley cat glares at them from atop a battered dumpster, then disappears into the bushes behind it.

"Well, here we are," she says, turning off the engine.

Red takes another drink from his flask, offers it to her again. This time she takes a swig.

"Oh, that's strong."

Red loosens his seat belt, leans across the center console. 

"Shall I carry you across the threshold, darling?"

As he expected, his accompanying leer steadies her.

"Just the bags, Ted."

Liz hops out, unlocks the door, turns on the porch light. He follows her inside, drops their bags on the floor, explores the space as Lizzie locks and bolts the door behind him, then resets the alarm.

The small rooms, one bedroom, a living room, and a crowded office off the hall that leads to the store, are clean and adequately furnished, but not in any way inviting, being wholly devoid of any decor save a few mounted deer heads and framed posters from old gun shows. Even the kitchen has a stuffed fish on the wall.

There's an unlocked trapdoor to the panic room under the hall rug.

Red carries the bags into the bedroom, sets one on each side of the bed. He'll take the side nearest the door.

Liz is rummaging in the kitchen cabinets.

"There's canned chili, or soup, or..."

She turns the tall can and wrinkles her nose sceptically.

"Canned ravioli?"

Red takes it from her hand, places it firmly back in the cabinet. Shuts the cabinet doors.

"An abomination, to be sure."

"Aren't you hungry yet?" asks Liz. 

"We need to inspect our purchase first, Angela," says Red. He gestures towards the hall. "After that, I did see a tavern within walking distance. Just a little more than two blocks away."

Liz rolls her eyes.

"You don't usually buy me dinner, Ted. We have to be so careful with money."

Better. Much better.

Red closes the distance between them. Puts his hands on her shoulders, gives her a little squeeze through the puffy layers of the coat and her vest and sweater beneath it.

"Ted?"

Red takes her mouth, closes his eyes, kisses her with every bit of tenderness he can muster. Liz steps closer, and at last he feels her arms come around him, hold him loosely around the waist.

He waits for her to break off the embrace, but she doesn't. Liz just stands there, savoring his mouth as if she intends to satisfy her hunger solely with kisses. Red is flooded with sadness, as if something new, something vulnerable, is trying to begin here in this grim little space. Or ending. They're so often the same thing.

At last he steps back, breathing a little hard.

"Tavern," murmurs Liz. "Ok, sure."


	13. Settling In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Red and Liz settle in

The gun shop is cluttered and dusty, as if the cleaners who swept, vacuumed, and mopped the living space in preparation for their arrival were not allowed to set foot in the store. The windows and door are tightly barred, however, and the big gun safes show no sign of tampering.

Plenty of stock, ammunition as well, and a few racks of sundries. A whole rack of magazines and books. A big bulletin board by the door is covered with handwritten notes and photos. Time enough to look at those in daylight.

Red turns the heat up before they leave, then walks around adjusting the vents, as Liz makes the bed with the faded beige flannel sheets from the bottom drawer of her dresser. She piles on all the blankets she finds, folds a nylon comforter at the base of the bed.

Her dresser. Red's dresser.

She's dumped her new clothes in the drawers, stashed her duffel bag in the closet. So many shades of brown - Ressler must think she's an autumn.

Red hasn't made any move yet to unpack.

What has she done to her life?

"Shall we walk or drive?"

Red's fully dressed, his absurd hat with the ear flaps that frame his face somehow making him appear more youthful. Liz wonders randomly what face products he uses on his smooth, even skin. Neither of their bags contained toiletries. She'll need to find a drug store in the morning.

"Walk," decides Liz. "Because I plan on having a drink."

Red cocks an arm at her.

"Let's go exploring, Angela," he responds.

The tavern is unexpectedly large, despite a small storefront. It extends back a full block, with a dog leg into a large room containing pool tables and beyond them, a smaller room with a row of video slots.

They order steak sandwiches off the limited menu available until midnight, and Liz chatters about the purchases they'll need to make the next day.

"Make a list, Angela," Red advises her. 

Liz stops mid-sentence.

"You know you always forget things, if you don't make a list."

Oh, right. Angela Bateman does not have a professionally trained memory for detail.

Liz fumbles in the over-large purse Ressler supplied. It seems to contain nothing that she carried back at home, in her own small handbag.

Well, a wallet, but not one this size, a needlepoint clutch containing not only a checkbook, several dollars worth of change, and a sheaf of coupons, in addition to cash and ID, but also a selection of hideous, doctored photographs of Red. She hasn't shown them to him yet.

Red peers over the table, watching her dig in the bag with evident amusement.

At last she extracts a notebook and pen, begins writing in a deliberately slow, loopy script.

Purple ink. Ugh.

Red provides her with a list of toiletries, all ordinary brands. She can't help but dimple across the table at him, listening to him recite the exact versions he wants, silly names like "Arctic Snow" rolling so plummily from his mouth.

Their sandwiches arrive, with fries on the side. The only vegetable provided is ketchup. Liz only manages half a sandwich. Red eats the other half, plus most of her fries. They sip the last of their second drinks for dessert.

She catches his glance at the back of the tavern.

"No hustling pool for you tonight, Ted," she says severely. "We need to get right to work in the morning."

"Of course, dear." He hands the Visa card from his black ballistic nylon wallet to the server. Ressler set up one account, with both their names. Liz has a matching card, but she doesn't know what the limit is.

When the server returns, Red leaves a small tip. Just ten percent. He looks up, catches her frowning.

"I'm not cheap, I'm just careful."

The deep green of his thermal shirt and the v-neck wool sweater over it turn his changeable eyes to green. One of his feet nudges her under the table.

She's trying to make him be Red, generous Red, but that's wrong. 

He's actually her husband Ted, something of a loser perhaps, given his string of failed small businesses, but this time is going to be different. This time, he's promised her they will settle down, make a success of it. Repay her small inheritance that his last drunk driving arrest drained away in attorney fees.

She's given him this last chance. Or she's going to leave him.

Ted Bateman is willing to take chances, commit illegal acts to make money. Of course he's going to be careful with the tip.

Liz could drown in the color of those eyes. How could she have looked at Red so often, for so long, and never seen what she sees now?

"Come along, Angela, you're practically falling asleep in your chair."

Liz rises, pulls on her long, puffy coat, and allows Red to usher her out into the night.

The clouds have cleared, and the few streetlights of the small town street are no match for the blazing scatter of stars above them.

Liz clings to Red's arm, walks in step with her eyes turned upward. Her last drink was a double, but she feels like it was stronger.

"Curb," Red advises her. They step down, cross the street, approach their back door.

The alley cat is back atop the trash can, crouched, unmoving.

Red lets them in, locks the door as Liz heads for the bathroom. Looks around in dismay as she remembers they have no toothbrushes or mouthwash. There's not even soap.

Red is sitting on the foot of the bed when she emerges, hat and coat off, but otherwise fully dressed.

"Mint?" He holds up a roll of breath mints, and she takes two. Crunches them gratefully between her teeth as she takes a seat beside him.

"We have no night clothes," she comments. "I checked."

Red slits his eyes at her. 

"He probably expects us to sleep in our thermals."

Liz shrugs, then flops backwards to lie on the bed with her legs dangling off the end. Red leans back with more control, props himself on one elbow, facing her. His eyes are still so impossibly, beautifully green.

"What does Ted enjoy in bed, I wonder?"

Liz reaches up, rubs the plush of his hair at the very back of his head, then slides her fingers down to dance harder over the stiff muscles of his neck.

"Mmmm."

Red lets out a soft sound, closes his eyes as she presses into a tight spot and waits for it to dissolve.

"Anything you want to try, I would think," he murmurs. "Ted knows how fortunate he is to have you for his wife."

Liz squirms sideways, raises her other arm to bring both hands to bear on her task. Her thumbs dig circles into the tension in Red's neck, then soften to smooth it away. 

She can work with that. Oh yes, she can.

***

A few nights later, Red wakes at two o'clock as planned, and tucks the covers carefully around Liz with his pillow pushed against the small of her back.

It's cold, but he dresses only in the new green robe Liz bought him, the one hanging on the bathroom door hook. The closet door squeaks, and so do his drawers.

Aram's laptop has been returned to him, packaged in a cardboard box of ammunition that appears to have been shipped directly from the manufacturer.

Red locks the office door that he oiled into silence the day before, while Liz was buying groceries. Again. She knows how to cook, but she clearly doesn't cook often, because she has no sense of how much food to purchase for a week.

Or maybe Angela is cheap too, or just trying to take some weight off him.

He plugs in the laptop. Bringing up one program after another in the correct order takes time, so Red allows part of his mind to examine that thought.

No, based on the way Liz touches his body, there's been no indication that he's anything but perfectly pleasing to her, extra weight and all. It's not a puzzle he particularly wants to solve. 

Tom Keen, Kenneth Alan Moore, everyone Red knows about that Liz has dated, names on just one of his many lists with her as the subject, they've all been exceptionally fit. Tall and slender. Athletic. 

Well, he's capable of doing fairly athletic things, if need be. But it's so much simpler just to hire the necessary muscle.

The window opens, the uplink is available again.

Liz gave him a funny look, but purchased the gold readers for him on her first trip to the drug store. He needs to remember to use them in the shop occasionally. Despite his excellent vision.

He's moving money again. Not just investments, but also certain funds for the purchase of one very specific firearm.

This hunt will go faster if there are multiple bidders. Liz doesn't need to know that he's changing the plan slightly. She likes to be in control.

Red pulls the robe closed at the neck, adjusts the belt. Angela has the upper hand in this relationship. He's pretty sure that in some of their future placements, Liz will be at his mercy, instead.

"Alton Miers, please," he says to the expensively dressed receptionist who appears on the screen. "Yes, he's expecting my call."


	14. Contact is Made

It takes a few days to get the gun shop ready to open, mostly just cleaning and inventory, but also some paperwork, including the certificate of occupancy and the business checking account. At least Ressler has already handled their state dealer's license.

Their first real customer is a skinny bearded man in faded camouflage, with a fine-boned boy in tow, his narrow face red and raw with acne.

"Welcome! What can we do for you?"

Red's big voice booms, impossibly cultured. Liz looks up from where she's squatting behind one of the glass cases, cleaning it carefully with spray cleaner and a cloth. She's been dusting and cleaning slowly, very thoroughly, to give herself something to do.

He's not affecting an accent, but surely Red should be watching his diction?

The man gives him a dubious look.

Casually, Red plucks a cinnamon toothpick from the glass jar by the register, unwraps it, picks at his teeth.

The man at the door visibly relaxes, takes a few steps closer to Red. He cuffs the boy gently on the back of his crew cut head.

"Go pick out a magazine," he says to the boy. "Just one. Pick carefully."

He comes to the counter, leans forward.

"Birthday present. A new rifle. I have time to order it, if you don't have the right one in stock."

Red chews on the toothpick as they examine a catalog together.

Liz focuses on wiping down a particularly stubborn spot, trying very hard not to giggle.

***

The first weeks are surprisingly pleasant.

One by one, Red pulls out all the stock, even the older, used weapons from the very back of the safes. He breaks them down, cleans them, talks about their strengths and weaknesses with Liz. She's been trained on so few of them. Each weekend, and Tuesday and Thursday evenings, they'll take a nice selection out to the shooting range.

"I haven't seen one of these for, oh, it must be ten years," he exclaims at one point, fondling an ugly old pistol with a scarred grip.

Liz sits beside him at the workbench, glancing occasionally at the mirror which reflects the door. Even though she will hear the bells clipped to the door handle jingle if anyone enters.

His hands are so strong, so competent. Not particularly large, not long fingered or elegant - it's the economy of movement, along with the grace, that catch and hold her eyes, again and again.

Liz reaches out, lifts his right hand from the weapon, licks the tips of his fingers.

"Not in the shop, Angela," he says absently, pulling his fingers away.

"Put out the break sign," she answers, allowing just a little of what she's feeling when she looks at his hands to enter her voice.

Red pauses, looks over at her, sets the weapon down.

"I can do that," he responds mildly.

He sets the little plastic hands of the clock on the sign to "Back in 30 minutes" and hangs it on the inside of the glass door next to the handle.

They use every second of it.

***

Their first contact comes the third week. He pretends to be curious, asks after old Colts, spends time browsing the few examples displayed in the glass case at the end of the counter. 

Liz smiles and watches him, fingering the key to the case on the key ring at her waist.

Red is having a late lunch, with a side of pool, down at the tavern. Angela's been encouraging Ted to win his drinking money.

The price tags are all reversed. Red explained when Liz tried to flip them over that guns are like jewelry - as shop keepers, they want to force the prospective buyer to ask about the price. If a customer asks about a particular weapon, she'll unlock the cabinet, take it out to look at the price, then either hand it over or place it on a leather pad on the counter.

Browsing is more likely to turn into buying if the customer touches the item. 

The first contact just looks, then asks if there are any other used Colts available. Anything with 'a history'?

Liz defers to her husband Ted, who will be back soon. The man leaves and doesn't return.

***  
Red reports the second contact to her, the afternoon she returns from the local laundromat with their duffel bags loaded with clean clothing, towels and sheets. She has a library card now, and enjoys her quiet time reading in the fresh-scented, sunny space while their clothing runs through the necessary cycles in the big machines.

Red hinted at possession of an interesting piece, but claimed he won't sell unless he knows the buyer actually cares about the history.

That's not the plan. Liz wonders why he's pushing the time line. But she doesn't ask.

This possible buyer was a young woman, with tattoos on her hands. Not their fence.

Ressler, watching the gun shop from the ideal vantage point of his bedroom window, captures license plates on both contacts, as well as photos. Plenty of photos.

His cover is bird watcher, living on a disability check. Ressler still has his cane, and the scar on his leg, and the memory of months of limping. It's natural that he has a high powered scope, cameras with big lenses, and an inordinate curiosity not only about the neighborhood around his town home, but also any nearby bushes and trees.

Neither of the contacts lead them back to the fence when traced by the FBI, however, and Red has the presence of mind to refuse delivery of an unexpected package late on Friday afternoon.

The UPS driver is deeply unhappy at the end of the interaction, but at last he takes the package away.

Ressler calls two of the waiting agents to intercept the big brown van on the road out of town. A small explosive charge, and three different canisters filled with a sinister blend of gases.

A third agent enters the shop just before they close, dressed in casual clothing appropriate to her undercover role as a visiting vacuum cleaner saleswoman. She pretends to browse the tray of Tasers in the glass cabinet to the left of the cash register as Liz and Red confer briefly with Ressler over her phone on speaker, keeping their backs to the door.

"So you think he'll show in person, now?" Ressler asks. "Maybe try a robbery?"

Liz shrugs and looks at Red.

"Oh no, Donald, I do not expect our man to involve himself in the actual attack." Red sounds confident, although his eyes are deeply shadowed. Liz is pretty sure he didn't sleep at all the previous night.

He claimed to have an upset stomach. But she's sure it was something else. Something he doesn't want to tell her.

"He'll show up outside, once we're incapacitated, to ensure himself of the provenance of the item," Red goes on, smirking into the phone. 

"He may already be here in town," Liz puts in. If she had been in the shop with Red, they could have retreated to the panic room. Allowed the attack to continue.

"We can't keep Mayor Rogers in protective custody forever," returns Ressler, sounding annoyed. "Our excuses about a spa vacation are wearing thin."

Red has managed to identify the fence's next target, an outspoken politician from Arizona. The killer is an escapee from a federal detention center, who pistol-whipped, raped, then shot a congresswoman with the Colt now resting in a black leather case on the top shelf of their smallest safe.

If used twice, the weapon will be much more valuable. At least to certain collectors with very different political leanings.

The door jingles.

Red shuts the phone and lays it on the counter in one smooth move.

Liz turns more slowly, picks it up, and holds it out towards the agent as three teenagers in matching gun club caps enter the shop.

"Your phone, ma'am?"

The agent thanks her and leaves.


	15. Before the Attack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Red and Liz at work.

"I"ll be right back." Red leaves Liz to wait on the teenagers and unlocks their private quarters, lets himself in, then leans his back on the door.

This can't go on.

Two nights ago, he woke from one of his periodic nightmares to find Liz curled around him, pressing soft kisses to his face as she assured him that it was only a dream. That everything would be all right.

And he believed her.

For a few glorious, amazing moments, not quite fully awake, Red lay warm and safe in the loving arms of his wife, and his past, everything he's been fighting against more than twenty years, was the lie.

Except he's not a small town gun dealer, and his bad back, newly wrenched in the car accident, is becoming more and more stiff and painful from sleeping on their inadequate mattress, and he's currently playing bait for a deadly chemical attack.

And Liz has never said that she loves him.

Angela loves Ted. She pities him, sometimes, and she doubts his ability to succeed in business, but she loves her husband. She's trying to make it work.

Beyond their amazing, unexpected physical connection, which Red can't help but doubt and second guess whenever he's apart from Liz for very long, he's most overwhelmed by shooting at the gun range with her. She's so determined to become better and better at anything she attempts.

That applies to so many activities.

'Competitive' has always been high on his list of her defining qualities, but now he's added 'staying power.' Liz has thrown herself into her new role with unexpected verve and a leavening sense of humor.

She's never called him Red here, not once.

He wants this to be over. To spend a few days in the comfort, privacy, and luxury of his own life. To be Raymond Reddington again, before they start the next charade. To smoke a cigar, listen to music, play cards with Dembe.

He wants to stop feeling so comfortable in this meager new life. It's not real. 

Elizabeth Keen is important to him, but she's not his whole world. She can't be.

***  
Liz refuses to unlock the glass cases for the teenagers. They're not here to spend money; it's probably a dare, to see if one of them can convince her to let him hold a weapon he's not old enough yet to purchase.

"Your father will need to come in with you," she tells the tallest boy, severely. She's borrowed Red's gold readers from his shirt pocket, well, stolen them, actually.

She thinks that she looks closer to his age with them perched on her nose. Even though their cover states that he married her very young, when he was flush with money from a pawnshop that went bankrupt less than a year after they married. Angela has the upper hand. But Liz rarely feels that way.

When the teenagers leave, mumbling insults, she locks the shop door and pulls a burner phone from the big bag containing individually wrapped peppermints that she bought to set by the register.

She's got three of the cheap little phones stashed away by now, and she rotates their use.

"Aram?"

She swept the store for bugs at lunch, and the teenagers, plus two women she met at the library who are trying to start a book club, have been the only customers this afternoon.

The agent with the cell phone doesn't count. She leaned against the glass countertop, examining tasers, the entire time.

"Liz!"

They converse quickly, in the shorthand they established and rehearsed before she left. Liz was tremendously honored and pleased that Aram came to her as soon as Red made his offer of employment. True, they developed a special bond after fighting together against Garrick's men, but even though Aram is older, Liz has come to feel like he's the little brother she never had.

He's so intelligent, and earnest, and utterly unassuming.

He cares when people die. Even very bad people. When she talks to him, Liz can remember when she felt that way, as well.

All he has to report is that he hasn't had further contact with Red. And that Cooper seems unusually patient, considering their lack of progress so far.

Liz reassures Aram that she's well, says good-bye with "You keep safe, too."

If she ever says anything else at the end of a call, that's a very specific signal.

Liz shuts off the phone and drops it back into the bag of mints, then pulls out a handful to refill the bowl as Red lets himself back into the shop. 

"I'll count out, if you'd like?" Red offers.

Oh. She promised to make lasagna tonight, didn't she?

"Sure Ted, that would be great."

As they approach each other, Liz slows, swings her hips a little. Ever quick on the uptake, Red pauses, looks her up and down.

"Yes, Mrs. Bateman?"

She steps so close that they are almost touching.

"I missed you," she purrs.

Red pulls her into his arms, kisses her in thorough and satisfactory fashion. 

"Lasagna," he murmurs lovingly in her ear. "And garlic bread."

"And salad," she corrects him, in an equally adoring tone, before kissing him again.

She can kiss Red for hours. She's never felt that way with anyone before. 

***

When Liz finally wanders off to the kitchen, somewhat dreamily, Red pops the tiny recorder from under the edge of their wall-mounted business license and tucks it into the folds of his pocket handkerchief.

He has the voice print of the last of the agents watching them now. His people will be able to isolate any ongoing chatter.

The next attack is coming soon. They have to be ready.


	16. Not Yet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Red and Liz, together.

It's late. Red is sitting on the side of the bed, fully clothed. Just sitting. It's all he can manage.

Liz looks over from where she is reading a thick hardback book encased in a clear plastic library cover. She sits up a little taller at the head of their bed, propped up against the wall with both their pillows, and marks her place.

"Coming to bed anytime soon?' she asks him.

She's wearing her new blue robe, smaller twin to his green one, and probably nothing beneath it. Her loose dark hair spills over her shoulders.

If he tries to stand up, he's going to fall on the floor. His back has started to seize up. He can't protect her like this.

"Is your neck bothering you? Your back?"

She doesn't move from where she's sitting, but to Red, it feels as if she's right beside him. Too close, too intense.

He will not appear weak in front of her.

Even if Ted has been weak, again and again.

"What would you be doing if I wasn't here, Ted?"

"I have some stretches, some exercises," Red responds in a careful monotone. "Prescribed by a very exclusive Swiss physician. I'd take a very hot shower, then spend at least an hour on the floor. But they're optional."

There's no room anywhere in their living space but the carpeted floor of their bedroom, between the foot of their bed and the closet. The office is impossibly cluttered, and the small living room has a scarred, cold wooden floor.

Red tried these exercises in front of a mirror once. Never again.

And here, he's never alone.

The bed shifts beneath him as Liz crawls out from between the covers. Red grits his teeth and restrains a flinch at the unexpected movement. He hears the scraping sound of her dresser drawer.

"I bought you some new thermals," she says, dropping a bundle of soft looking gray fabric on the bed next to him. "Get your shower, and get in action. Do the ones the Medicaid doctor told you to do."

Red lifts his gaze with an effort, the tight crick in his sore neck pulling even tighter. He already has three separate physical therapy plans, for his much abused back, left shoulder, and sore knees, from prior his latest car accident. Let alone all the acupuncture.

Ted has no personal physician, Swiss or otherwise.

"Ted, I'm your wife." Liz lays one hand on his shoulder, very lightly. "If you can't take care of yourself, how can you take care of me?"

Point taken.

He'll be able to stand soon, if he can just keep her talking.

He can't ask her not to watch. That would be almost as bad.

Liz takes her hand off his shoulder, tucks her hair behind her ears.

"I'll read to you, while you do them, if you like?" she offers. Without touching him further at all. Red feels the bed bounce as Liz clambers back under the covers, opens her book again.

Reading will help. They don't even have a radio. Ted is supposedly deaf in one ear. Red's already convinced Liz that their next placement must allow for music.

He leans forward, lets his weight carry him to a standing position on his feet. Clutches the new thermals, tags dangling, as he limps to the bathroom.

The water in the narrow, metal paneled shower is just hot enough to help.

Red pulls off the tags and shakes out the thermals, then pulls them on over his damp skin with no small effort. He has to sit on the toilet seat to jockey his feet through the trouser legs. Liz has selected a larger size, and a soft cotton fabric instead of the nylon and cotton blend.

He towels the beads of sweat from his head once more, hangs up the towel, then emerges into the cooler air of the bedroom.

"I have a biography, a thriller, or humor?" Liz asks, pulling a few books off the omnipresent stack on her nightstand. She's wearing a thermal top now too, tight and midnight blue, and he can see tiny black lace panties in the gap of her robe from his vantage point looking down on the bed. She never wears anything to bed.

"Biography," says Red shortly. He leans forward, manages to sink to a kneeling position with both hands at the foot of the bed, and then lowers himself onto his back on the floor. Liz begins reading aloud.

She can't see him from where she's sitting at the head of the bed.

Red take several deep breaths, then begins. The first ten minutes will be the most painful, before his muscles loosen up.

He should have been doing this every night. He has no right to be vain, to indulge whatever this is between him and Lizzie.

When he's finally done, Red heaves himself back to his knees and with an effort, gazes up the length of the bed at Lizzie. The light of her bedside lamp illuminates her heavy lashes, the perfect curves of her youthful face and her slender, toned body. She breaks off her reading, mid-sentence.

He's so tired. So aware of the impact of the recent damage.

Red wants to sweep Lizzie off her feet. Sweep her into bed, sweep her away from all this into his world of privilege and wealth and power.

Only now, the only world left to them is the world they create together.

"Ted, I'm so tired." She puts out one hand to him as she sets her book aside, carefully marking the place. She pulls off her robe, tosses it to the floor on her side of the bed. "Come and sleep with me now."

She makes no effort to remove any other clothes. Her hand wavers toward him, outstretched. Then she folds the bedding open on his side of the bed. Slides down under the covers on her side of the bed.

Red crawls up onto the bed, sprawls forward so that his face is almost on his pillow. Twists to face her on his side.

"Sleep," he assents, trying not to brace himself in anticipation of the touch of her hands. Her mouth. He's so sore. So weary. But they've been intimate every night since they've been here, even if it's only hands and lube.

Liz tucks the covers up around them both, snuggles close. Takes his left hand in hers, bends her head, kisses his wedding ring.

"Sleep," she agrees. "I love you, Ted."

Together, and separate, they sleep.

****  
Liz wakes twice during the night, as Red tenses, thrashes with nightmares.

She holds tight to him, kisses him on the closest available bit of his skin, lets her small strong hands grip him just hard enough that he starts to awaken, then settles himself back into sleep. It's taken some time, but she can usually get him back to sleep now before he's fully awake, before it will take him, and therefore her, an hour or more to fall asleep again.

Despite her interrupted rest, she's awake at first light.

Red lies sprawled on his side facing toward her, one arm draped over the curve of her waist. There's just a suggestion of crepe in the loose flesh of his neck above the line of his thermal top. His closed eyelids are dark with fatigue, and he needs a shave.

He's so precious to her.

Liz doesn't know who she's going to be by the time they catch the fence. She can't quite figure out how to put her career, the life she's worked so hard for, back together again. It feels sometimes like she's endlessly turning and turning the moving parts of a Rubik's cube, without any sense of what solution she's even seeking.

Ressler met someone on his ski trip. He gets a silly grin on his face when she texts him.

Aram has numerous cousins around the world, many of them trying to find a way to live well and safely within some very dangerous societies.

Even Cooper has his wife.

Liz has only Red.

She has to admit that to herself, even if the admission exacerbates her increasing internal tension between the demands of their mission, coupled with her growing sense that she's accidentally made a commitment of some sort to Red, and her desperate, almost frantic urge to flee, to defend herself against any suggestion that she's finally put herself at true emotional risk.

The situation with Tom was horrible, humiliating. But she always felt like a stranger to herself in her marriage, like a little girl playing at being a woman.

It's so different with Red. 

It reminds her of a picture in a storybook Sam used to read to her. She's standing in the center of a wide, spacious crystal chamber, with the sun and moon and stars overhead, and even though she can't see the far reaches of the space in every direction, she knows there are wonderful things waiting for her to discover them. Even in those spaces that are currently filled with shadows and darkness.

And if she said anything like that to Red, he'd think her a fool, or worse, he'd be gone so fast. 

She's no longer a child, despite the wonder that unexpectedly floods her in Red's embrace, again and again. And what they're most likely to encounter together is further disgrace, and death.

Liz shakes her head at her own foolishness, allows her eyes to caress her sleeping bed mate, at least what she can see of him. Mostly the bald curve of his head, the elegant line of one ear. His hair is getting too long, the silver plush resolving into fine strands of many shades.

Raymond Reddington is an island unto himself. Liz knows she can't hold him for long; she's been amazingly fortunate to have these few weeks.

And she'll fight for the next placement she discussed with Cooper, for at least one more safe house, once they catch the fence.

She can't bear to let him go. Not yet.


	17. Counting Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Red, Liz and the fence.

Liz eats an English muffin with butter and honey for breakfast, takes a glass of orange juice into the shop with her and opens early, leaving Red asleep.

It's Saturday, and she does a relatively brisk trade in ammunition and hunting permits. 

Liz loved hunting with Sam, but Red's not interested. He likes to watch wild animals, not kill them. Although he's happy to take deer meat as barter. She's not sure that the rich dark sauce Red taught her to make is something Ted would enjoy, but she goes along with it. He's already so sad that Ted doesn't drink wine with every meal.

"You got a rest room?"

Another large group of hunters has entered the store. Liz glances down at the small black and white screen below the counter, fed by the security cameras trained on the parking lot. No, it's two different carloads.

She shakes her head.

"There's a tavern two blocks up, but you'll need to buy something," she advises the burly man. 

The bells on the door jingle. Glancing down at the screen again, Liz notices there are still only two vehicles in their front parking lot.

Maybe one of their acquaintances from a neighboring shop?

But the tall, slim man in fatigues is unfamiliar.

He's carrying a heavy nylon messenger bag, tan with black clasps, and Liz automatically identifies them as metal rather than plastic, unmatched, lockable.

Inconsistent.

His aviator sunglasses, folded and hooked into his right front pocket, are too expensive.

Her analyst mind is going crazy. 

He turns his head from side to side, his gaze sliding over the nearby shelves without apparent interest. 

This man, the fence, he's here in front of her.

Red is impossibly far away.

Her mind skitters among the possibilities - sleeping, in the shower, eating the last English muffin with far too much honey in the bleak little kitchen. 

The panic room is an open once, then lock it closed, option. It has a sealed air system to protect them from an attack, but not the positive air pressure that would allow for multiple entry.

The fence comes straight up to the counter.

"Your husband sold me an old Colt. A very particular weapon, in a black case." His voice is educated, unaccented.

The case is monogrammed with the initials of the shooter. Some family history, there.

"I'm just here to take delivery."

So many men in the shop right now. Unacceptable collateral damage.

Liz pulls the case from a shelf beneath the cash register, but instead of handing it over, she steps around the counter. She looks down at the case, not at the fence, as she reaches for the latches.

"Here, let me show you .." she begins.

As the man's hands reach out for the box, Liz steps forward with all the speed she's been trained to use to take down a suspect, crashes into the fence, then steps back, letting out a startled scream. She drops the box.

"Keep your hands to yourself!" she shouts as the man bends automatically for the box. 

Every man in the room is turned towards her, several pulling weapons from concealed carry.

Liz clutches herself, one hand at her breast, the other at her groin. Fortunately, today she's wearing a fairly attractive version of her modest daily wear, a long straight khaki skirt, and a flowered blouse, open like a jacket over a warm navy waffle shirt trimmed in matching lace.

The burly man has the fence by one arm, a shorter man with a long gray beard has him by the other. He's still clutching the black case with the Colt.

"You want us to take him outside, teach him a lesson?"

Liz nods, turning her eyes away from the poisonous glare of the fence.

The men all spill out of the shop, dragging the slim man with them like a receding tide. Everyone wants to watch.

The air suddenly smells foul. There's smoke coming from one corner of the shop, which means the real gas is coming from somewhere else. 

Liz holds her breath, begins the count as she runs to the hall door.

She can't just run outside, she's got to find Red.

He's at the other end of the hall, heading purposefully from the kitchen toward the door to the shop. The gun in his hand has a silencer so long she imagines for an instant he's carrying a rifle.

Liz motions at the floor, at the panic room. Red flips up the carpet, pulls the door open, and drops down into the small dark space behind her, securing it after them.

"I see you've been busy," Red comments, turning on the large flashlight clipped to the wall and using it to illuminate the controls for the sealed air system.

Liz leans forward, blows the breath she's been holding out into the intake. Into the air scrubbers. Holds her shaking hands out, turns them over in the dim light. No evidence of a reaction, no chemical burns from the fumes. She got down here in time.

"Ressler had better have been watching," she returns. She pulls the string to flip on the small overhead light.

The ceiling is low. There's no furniture, just a few supplies, most of them boxed in piles in the back corner. They sit side by side on folded cotton sleeping bags on the cement floor. There's a whole pile of them.

Liz fills him in on events upstairs.

Red shakes his head slowly, as if in disbelief.

"Lizzie, what ever were you thinking?"

He called her Lizzie. Well, Angela wouldn't be down here, wouldn't even have a panic room, would she?

Red rises to a squat, spreads the sleeping bag out, and then opens another one over it.

"What are you doing?" she asks him, distracted. 

"Resting," says Red shortly. "From the way you smell, we're going to be down here for quite a while."

He lies down, pulls the second sleeping bag over himself, covers his eyes with the crook of one arm.

"You think I should have followed those men out, arrested him in the parking lot."

It's not a question.

"If he's gone, if your FBI colleagues have let him slip, he's gone for good. With the Colt." 

She can't see his eyes, just his lips moving. 

"This isn't just one blacklister, Lizzie. If this is to be the first of a dozen operations, it has to run like clockwork. You didn't follow the plan."

He's one to talk.

Liz looks down at her shaking hands, cradled in the loose folds of her skirt. She's rubbing her scar.

She wants to scream at him, strike him, say the worst, the most cruel things she can think of.

Who cares about blacklisters if he's dead?

She herself was lucky to make it down here alive.

"Well, it's done now," she says instead. "And we have six hours of air, to wait for Ressler and the others to come and get us."

"That may not be enough," Red answers.

She knows that. Also, that they have masks and oxygen down here, but not full hazmat suits.

"Turn off the light, Lizzie," says Red.

Numb, she reaches up and pulls the string, sits in the darkness listening to Red's slow, even breathing.

***  
Red knows that part of every operation involves patience, involves waiting. He's a lot less concerned when he's waiting for his own people to report back. 

The smell of the gas, the smell of death, on Lizzie.

That was much too close. What was he thinking, subjecting her to the risk of chemical weapons? For real this time, not just a backpack mocked up to look like the work of The Chemist.

He can only protect her when he's in control. But Lizzie, when she sees an opportunity, she reacts to it. She's like him in that respect, but without his detachment. His judgment.

And who are you to talk about judgment, jeers a little voice in his head. Squandering what may be your last time with her, lying here alone?

Red is just too furious to touch her. Or terrified. Or something even worse. He has important interests at play with the fence, with the next blacklister as well.

He has to put himself first. Or they will have nothing together, be nothing.

Would he even still care about blacklisters, if she's dead?

Red lies very still, turning over the next steps of his plan in his mind. Counting down.


	18. Moving On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Red and Liz and what comes next.

It's been five hours, 50 minutes. 

Liz knows the decontamination schedule now, knows there's not enough time, not enough air. The burner phone in her skirt pocket is almost out of minutes. She shut it off with a flick of her thumb right after the door slammed shut. There's nothing that Aram can do for her in this situation.

When Red points up at the locked hatch of the panic room, and she stands and presses her ear to it, she can hear unfamiliar voices.

The FBI are upstairs, doing their best.

It's not going to be good enough.

"Lizzie."

Red throws off the sleeping bag, rises to his knees, shifts three boxes from the pile of supplies. The long narrow shipping box has already been cut open, and Red pulls stiff white material out of clear plastic.

"Hazmat suits???"

"Eight minutes, Lizzie."

Red climbs into his suit with the practiced movements of someone who already knows how his suit works, where all the clips and fasteners fit.

Liz has been trained on these types of suits, but it's different here with the low roof.

"Oxygen," says Red, then pulls his hood into place, his own tank already hissing. He pulls on his boots, tosses Liz another pair of boots in her smaller size.

No time, no time.

She wants to ask him why he waited, she wants to ask him about hiding the suits down here. What did he know?

Liz pushes open the panic room door, climbs up the ladder, waves at the white suited men and women wandering through their former space amid the billowing clouds of smoke and gas.

It's noisy - they must be working on venting and scrubbing the gases on site.

A man motions her toward the back door. Liz follows him, slowly. The suit is so hot already. She can't turn easily to see if Red is following, but where would he go?

They pass through multiple airlocks. Through various types of decontamination.

Then Liz is ushered into the back of one ambulance, and Red, to her dismay, into another.

She catches a glimpse out the square, tinted back windows as the ambulance pulls away. A huge white tent now covers the gun shop and their living quarters, emblazoned with the name of a nationally known firm of exterminators.

Very clever.

"Did we get him?" she asks the agent who is drawing blood as she lies on the rattling narrow gurney in the ambulance. They're up in the mountains already - this must be the alternate evacuation plan.

The agent nods.

"Agent Ressler will be meeting you for the debrief," he assures her. Liz looks over at the other agent, also dressed as a medic. She's young, blond, with hard brown eyes.

The woman also nods, but her eyes don't soften at all.

Liz lies back, lets them take their samples. Check her heart rate, blood pressure, even her temperature.

The fence, with his narrow face, his profile unmistakable. Red's people had only managed to photograph him in silhouette. He must have something that Red wants. Or maybe just the name of a buyer.

She needs to talk to Red. They agreed on a three day break between placements back at the start of the mission, but it's been a month. A whole month of Ted and Angela.

Is that still what he wants?

Liz closes her eyes and tries not to think.

Never mind Red. What does she want right now?

What has she done to her life?

***  
Red is unsurprised that the two agents in his ambulance handcuff his wrists to the gurney on either side before they draw his blood. They're garbed as medics, but their expressions are guarded and watchful.

They want to debrief him, apart from Lizzie.

This will be much easier without her knowing blue eyes.

He lies on the gurney looking up at the ceiling, trying to imagine where they are. He memorized the maps during the planning phase, but he's never driven any of these mountain roads before. There's a photo of a butterfly taped to the ceiling of the ambulance. Orange and black. A monarch.

"What's that?"

The ambulance driver is slowing.

"Oh my god, children!"

"Look at all that blood!"

The agents jump from the ambulance, only the youngest, a slender Hispanic woman with her dark hair in a high bun, taking the time to double-check that Red's handcuffs are still secure.

"Go, go," he assures her genially. "Don't mind me. I'm still recovering from being rescued."

Dembe is at the back door of the ambulance not thirty seconds later.

He unlocks the cuffs and leads Red at a run up the steep hillside above the road, where they quickly lose themselves from sight among some trees.

There are two mud-encrusted dirt bikes waiting, bright orange vests and caps.

"A little noticeable?" comments Red, bending over at the waist and breathing hard. His feet hurt from running in his, no, Ted's, thermal socks. He left his boots behind to be decontaminated, or more likely, incinerated.

"Come, Raymond," Dembe encourages him, straddling his bike and kicking it into gear. The engine growls, perfectly in tune. "I've had two men riding circles up here for the past hour."

"Dizzy, are they?" returns Red, mounting the other bike and beginning to follow Dembe up the steep dirt trail.

Dembe just accelerates.

He always loves to race.

Red grins and leans forward, gunning the bike.

He'll pay for this tonight.


	19. A Break Between Safe Houses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Red and Liz, back in their own worlds.

Liz is already in the air by the time she learns Red is gone.

The mountainous, forested terrain slides past beneath the helicopter as she takes deep, angry breaths. She can't allow herself to feel fear.

His people. Surely.

It seems that leaving each other without kisses is becoming a pattern.

Hours later, a big black sedan deposits her at the Post Office. She notes in weary wonder that the blue Camaro is still parked at the far end of the lot.

Back home. Is this still home?

"Is this really necessary?" she asks Cooper, once she's been ushered into his office and provided with coffee.

She's still dressed as Angela, her makeup is smeared around her eyes and her hair is plastered to her head. Ressler takes a seat by her side. He's still dressed as a bird watcher, with the addition of his badge and gun.

"Tell me where Reddington is," Cooper demands.

"What?"

Liz takes a careful sip of her coffee. Cooper knows better than to ask her that.

"I've got five families demanding to know why the FBI dragged them into a fake reality TV show. One of them is the uncle of a congressman."

Liz shakes her head.

"There were three separate staged accidents, parent and kids, little kids, covered in make-up, fake blood everywhere. All of them screaming 'EMS: Revealed!'," Ressler informs her. "One on each of the evac routes."

Liz manages to restrain a smile, but she's afraid it shows in her eyes, because Cooper is looking murderous.

"We did discuss taking a break between safe houses ..." Liz begins.

"After you've been debriefed!" responds Cooper. "I need to know everything from your perspective, right now."

Ressler turns slightly in his chair to face her as she begins her account.

She's not going to include everything.

Not the way she's learned to curl comfortably next to Red, so restless even in his sleep, arranging her pillow so she can tuck her smaller body around his back, her lips at the base of his neck. Not the way Red eats his desserts, savoring every bite as if this is his last dessert ever. Not the way the silence in the panic room gradually settled from anger to peace to patience, all without words.

Most especially, not how much she's looking forward to their next placement.

***

"The lodge," Red tells Dembe as they abandon the dirt bikes and orange outerwear to the waiting men and take their seats in the van labeled "Abe's Cable", pulling on matching gray caps.

He's exhausted and muddy and he needs a hot shower and his own clothes. The plane can wait.

Red arranged for two luxurious houses in the area, one borrowed, one hired. Always a back-up plan.

He needs a chiropractor, some pain pills, and a hot tub. Not necessarily in that order.

Also an acupuncturist, a massage therapist, and a haircut.

Dembe drives, Red sits upright in the passenger seat, and tries to look as if his mind is not on Lizzie.

She's going to be fine, she wasn't even on oxygen when they loaded her into the ambulance.

Red has abandoned so many lives, lived out of a suitcase for so long, that he's surprised by the slight pang he feels when he thinks of Ted and Angela's shared closet, the table where they always sat at the tavern, the shooting range where their locker will sit untouched until someone cuts off the lock.

He's been alone so long. And then he spent these few weeks with Lizzie, and now something is missing. It's like a spider crawling at the edge of his peripheral vision, or more accurately, a vague sense that something is wrong, that something is gone that should be present. He should see her, sense her, smell her hair or her hand lotion.

He doesn't miss Angela, precisely, even thought there was a masochistic pleasure of sorts in her wary assessment of Ted's endeavors. Lizzie looks at him with such trust, sometimes. Angela may have had the advantage, there. She saw Ted fail. She knew it could happen.

Dembe rolls down the window, speaks into the security screen.

The powered gates, surmounted by a hideous iron cutout of the head of an elk, swing open.

"Is this it?" asks Red, surprised. He was sure it was another fifteen minutes to the lodge.

"No, this is a different place."

"Why?"

"There were multiple transmissions from inside the shop," Dembe informs him, pulling up in front of a large building framed in log siding. The high peak of the roof proclaimed an older design, but the rustic landscaping was immaculate. "Not just FBI."

Red gets out of the van, holds the door for the uniformed man who comes to take his place. Hands him the gray cap. The real repairmen, Abe and his wife's cousin, will drive out soon, reporting back to their dispatcher on the error in their GPS, and drive to the correct location of their next repair.

"You weren't able to identify them?" Red frowns, allowing Dembe to usher him into the lodge. It is warm and welcoming, permeated with the scent of burning pine from the tall river stone fireplace at the far end of the open living room.

Dembe looks around, then holds out his hand.

"Oh yes, the recording." Red fishes it out of the depths of his pocket. "Perhaps this will shed some light?"

"Your room is the second door on the right," says Dembe, gesturing up the sculptural log stairs.

Red smiles at him, rocking back and forth on his sore, stockinged feet. Not taking a step.

"There's a bottle in the bathroom," Dembe informs him.

"Well, then, I'm quite ready to explore" returns Red. He ascends the staircase slowly, listening for any sign that the spacious lodge is inhabited by anyone else. Nothing.

His room has a massive king size four poster bed. His customary suits and a half dozen immaculately pressed shirts are hanging in the closet. Fedoras are lined up on the shelf above them. Polished shoes below.

Red starts a deep hot bath running in the jetted tub and dumps in a scoop of mineral bath salts, drinks straight from the bottle of scotch. There's a crystal glass, just one, and a deep silver bowl of ice.

But he honors Ted, his own private farewell, and drinks from the bottle. Strips off his clothes, lowers himself into the hot bath water with a tremendous sigh of relief. No one to hear. No one to see.

Weeks of showers are finally at an end.

Red examines his naked self, squinting through the wavering lens of the hot water. His body hair floats like seaweed, drifting. Every inch of him has been touched, kissed, licked by Lizzie. He's a stranger to himself, this cherished body that so willingly turns, responds, reveals itself to her gaze.

He reaches beneath the water's surface, strokes himself, feels his own hand as a stranger.

She's been so eager for him, so enthusiastic, that for the last month he's had neither time nor inclination for what was once the very best part of his unpredictable days.

Red takes another swig from the bottle, lays his head back on the padded headrest built into the end of the tub, and tries to concentrate.

If Lizzie were here she would hand him a warm towel, rub his sore neck, curl tight around him as he eases into sleep.

He wants her more than ever.

Red soaks and drinks and wonders if Lizzie misses him at all.


	20. The Next Safe House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Red and Liz. Liz arrives at the next safe house.

By the time Cooper lets her go, Liz feels dizzy with the strain of the day, ravenous hunger, and what she tells herself is not that she misses Red, his physicality, the sound of his deep voice, but just a normal reaction to the end of the mission. Now that the fence is in custody, it's natural to feel all the extra adrenaline in her body draining away.

Is her car here? No, she left it at the apartment. Told the doorman when she left that she would cab to the airport for her new work assignment.

Aram is standing by the elevator, waiting.

"Need a lift home?"

Liz nods. Aram looks at her face, her eyes, not the unfamiliar clothing. Not the cheap rings she hasn't discarded yet. He remembers who she is.

"Yes, please."

In the garage, he leads her to the battered blue Camaro.

"Wait, isn't this stolen?" she asks.

"The trunk was full of marihuana," he informs her. "So we confiscated it."

Liz buckles up, watches the road as Aram pulls into traffic. She's never ridden with him before, but he drives well, alert but not overly reactive. Her nerves ease a little.

He fills her in on what the team has been doing as he wends his way through traffic. So many cars. So many people.

She's not surprised that he drives her directly to her apartment without asking for directions. Aram always knows more than he lets on. As they pull up in front, Liz realizes she's forgotten to ask him the most important question.

"Have you heard from Reddington?"

Aram nods.

"Dembe called to see if the fence is talking yet. Or if we've located his business address."

"Thanks."

On impulse, Liz reaches over and gives Aram a kiss on the cheek.

"You can tell him I'm doing fine, if he asks."

Aram nods, faint color appearing high on his cheekbones.

"I'm glad you're back," he responds.

They smile at each other for a moment, then Liz clambers out of the car. 

Damn. She has no luggage.

Liz departed with a clothing bag and a carry-on. They're still back at the Post Office, hopefully. She left them crammed under her desk.

But the doorman just holds the door for her without comment.

Her one bedroom apartment seems impossibly luxurious. So much space, and nothing scratched or dented. No stuffed heads of animals.

She wanders into the kitchen, peers into drawers, cupboards, the empty refrigerator, finds herself caressing a white and green striped kitchen towel, marveling at the softness of the cotton. 

She needs to get clean, to eat, to stop drifting through her own home as if waiting for Red to walk through the door and bring the space alight. That's not going to happen.

Liz calls out for Chinese delivery, then takes a quick shower, just long enough to thoroughly wash her hair. She stuffs Angela's clothes into a trash bag, ties it shut.

Then she turns on the gas fireplace, the television, more lamps, until the living room is filled with light and sound.

She's going to catch up on the shows she's missed, stuff herself on Szechuan food, and go to bed early. 

Liz has a plan. 

She'll think about Red tomorrow.

***

After his bath, after shaving with his own razor once again, Red wants nothing more than to crawl into bed and sleep.

Instead, he dresses with care in a three piece suit, sets a new fedora on his head, and makes his way downstairs, admiring himself in the tall mirror framed in antlers on the wall at the foot of the stairs.

Dembe has the screens set up on the dining room table, a satellite conference with three of his associates, plus some new, promising faces, in other parts of the world.

"Good morning, gentleman, I am Raymond Reddington."

He's back in business. It feels wonderful.

At one point, Dembe brings him a plate loaded with bacon, eggs and fried potatoes. He's apparently eating in their time zone.

Little details. One never knows when they will count.

Red drinks coffee, tells stories, negotiates. At one point he glances over to find Dembe gazing at him with unabashed fondness. The big man just shrugs, then looks back down at the tablet he's been perusing. He could be reading a novel, watching a movie, or reviewing tables containing the production rates of poppy farmers. Scrutinizing confirmation photos before authorizing payments to assassins. Contributing to Wikipedia.

He's missed Dembe more than he wanted to admit.

It's good to be home.

"Did that woman, April Bellis, do anything interesting while I was away?" he asks once the screens have gone dark.

Dembe smiles. 

"Oh yes, almost fifty thousand dollars is gone already."

"What did she do with all that money?" asks Red with a little frown. If someone else is using her already, he'll need to cut his losses.

Dembe smiles widely.

"Shoes," he responds.

Red laughs, then holds out his cup for more coffee. 

"I think we'll need to pay Miss Bellis a little visit, very soon."

***

Liz visits the gym, goes on a long run every day, gets prepared for the next safe house. She's buying her own clothes, this time.

Red said three days, but on the fourth morning, Liz decides to start without him. She hasn't heard from him at all.

Cooper agrees. He wants the next blacklister even more than she does. Taking pedophiles off the street is one of his pet projects.

And this blacklister, The Actor, he's not just a pedophile. He's a pedophile for hire. 

It's one thing to apply pressure by kidnapping the child of your target. That pressure is exponentially magnified by the addition of The Actor. Usually one short video is sufficient to achieve the desired result.

Liz flies coach to Atlanta, extracts her checked baggage from the maze of the airport, and takes a cab to the safe house. It's a tall two story building, an older home with the ground level converted to a dance studio. A plastic banner advertising lessons for both adults and children hangs above the painted name on the wall, stenciled in flowing black cursive on a cream background, "Cooper's Learn-2-Dance". Liz has never thought much of the assistant director's sense of humor.

Liliane Bernard meets her at the door. She's a tall, thin woman in her late fifties, wearing a hand-crocheted poncho over a black leotard and leggings, twin to the ones Liz herself is wearing under her fitted winter jacket and long, loose sweater dress.

Ressler's briefing back at the Post Office did not include Liliane's background, only that she's been with the safe house through several prior placements. Liz doesn't really care whether she's an agent, a source in witness protection, or merely a long term employee.

"Welcome, Mrs. Magritte."

"Rachel," responds Liz, holding out her hand. 

"Liliane, then." The older woman's smile warms, just a little. She has a thick French accent. "Your bags?" 

She puts out a hand toward the pile of luggage on the front stoop.

"No, I'll get them," returns Liz. 

Liliane Bernard lives in the smaller, rear apartment upstairs, while she and Red will have the larger rooms that overlook the street. She lives there rent free, meals included, in exchange for teaching a few dance classes, covering the reception desk as needed, and assisting the school owners with cooking and cleaning.

For that reason alone, Liz doesn't care about her background. Rachel Magritte is not domestic; she's a jealous wife, always spying on her husband Henry, who teaches ballroom dance as Monsieur Henri. No more grocery shopping.

Liliane unhooks the slender brass chain that blocks off the interior stairs that lead up from the entry hall of the business, the small "Private - No Public Entry" sign swinging and rattling as she hooks it back up behind them. 

"My husband has the flu and can't fly - too congested," Liz announces, preceding Liliane up the stairs.

"Classes don't start until next Monday," Liliane responds.

Liz turns right at the top of the stairs. There's an old fashioned key in the lock on the door marked with "Unit A." The other doors are marked "Unit B" and "Kitchen."

"He'll be here by then," she assures Liliane, pushing the door open and dumping her bags in the center of the sitting room.

He'd better be.


	21. Henry and Rachel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Red and Liz, short chapter.

It's Sunday afternoon when a taxi pulls up to the dance studio and disgorges an immaculately dressed Red, carrying a small black leather briefcase, a black fedora aslant over his eyes.

Liz has purchased his clothing this time, as well. She's added a few new pieces while waiting for him. Brighter colors, more extravagant patterns. 

She opens the door, motions him to come in. He stands on the brick walkway, looking up at the sign.

"I'm not teaching children," Red announces in his most supercilious tone. Liz grits her teeth as he turns and pointedly looks for the cab, which fortunately has already driven away.

"You only teach adults, Henry," she assures him, narrowing her eyes as if wondering whether he's once again been unfaithful. "Flu all gone?"

Red gives a dramatic sigh.

"Yes, Rachel, I'm quite well again."

He swaggers up to her, gives her a peck on the cheek.

Oh, she's missed the smell of his cologne, the warmth of his gaze.

"Why don't you show me our new home, darling?" he requests, still standing there on the doorstep.

Right. She's blocking the entrance, yearning to clutch at him, to reassure herself that he's really here.

Liz steps back. He waits, head cocked in inquiry.

"Come on in, Henry."

She leads him upstairs. Liliane's door is closed, as always. No sounds from within. She usually has music playing, not loud enough to penetrate the next apartment, but perceptible from the upstairs landing. Maybe she's gone out?

Once inside the apartment, door bolted, Liz turns to face Red, watches him remove his fedora and set it aside on the long table behind the overstuffed white love seat, shrug out of his overcoat.

He's wearing a dark wool suit, a white shirt, a dark tie. His thin-soled dress shoes glisten with polish. 

She's wearing a leotard and matching leggings, pale blue, with two gauzy, unconstructed white shirts layered over it. Dyed leather sandals studded with glass gems adorn her feet, matching her turquoise toenails, despite the winter weather.

Rachel is a former dancer. Modern dance, not ballet. Her dark hair, brightened with streaks of henna, is twisted up into little ponytails on either side of her head.

"Did you miss me?" Red asks, unbuttoning his vest and loosening his tie.

Liz swallows hard.

"We agreed on three days," she says, setting her hands on her hips, then arching her back. Liliane has been teaching her a few new stretches at the barre.

"It was just the flu, Rachel" responds Red in a faintly annoyed voice. "Are you interested in welcoming me home, or not?"

Henry has the upper hand in their marriage. Her career as a dancer never took off. She's been trying to establish herself as a choreographer, with very limited success. Monsieur Henri is the breadwinner.

Jealously could either make Rachel eager, or make her cold.

Liz licks her lips, allows the pent up desire of the past lonely week to surface.

Red's mouth twists, as if he's rolling a sour candy around in his mouth. Deciding if he likes the flavor or not.

His hands go to his belt, then the fastening of his perfectly pressed, pleated trousers. Liz is transfixed by the sure, practiced movements. She sinks to her knees on the sitting room rug in front of him as his hands move down to his zipper, waits there as he lowers his trousers and his pinstriped boxers to his knees.

Red's wearing a new wedding ring, studded with diamonds, that matches the band on her own finger. No engagement ring.

She watches him make himself ready for her, his pale hands sure beneath the fine white cotton of his button down shirt.

This is a new game for them. Ted was so grateful, almost reverent. She needs to forget about him. She's with Henry, now.

At last he reaches his left hand out, gives her hair a little tug, his right hand still moving.

Liz opens her mouth to him, allows his hands to guide her head. For all that he's in control, he's careful not to pull too hard on her hair. But she moves faster, deeper, only as Red wills her to, his grip never faltering.

She clings to his bare thighs for balance with both hands, feels him shift his weight, spreading his legs as wide as the tangle of his garments allows.

At one point, she almost chokes, trying to coax him over the edge.

Red pulls back, looks down at her upturned face.

"Enough, Rachel?" he asks in an idle tone. Reaches with his left hand for his trousers, now bunched almost at his ankles, his right hand still tangled in her hair.

"No, no, please Henry," Liz begs, straining towards him. He's so close and she feels almost the same, as if her mouth is filled with new nerve endings, quivering for the taste of him. "Please, Henry, please."

Red chuckles, cradles the back of her head with both his hands, finally allows her to set the rhythm.

"Now that's the woman I married," he murmurs down at her.

It's not long before she learns that Henry is as noisy as Ted was quiet. Liz has never heard Red's deep, rich voice quite like this, his almost guttural sounds of entreaty, then delight.

Oh yes, she's missed him.


	22. Leggings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Liz and Red.

"Thank you, Rachel, that was lovely."

Red buttons himself up with a sense of complete satisfaction he hasn't experienced for the last week, despite all the baths he's taken. Picking up his hat, he wanders through the apartment, noting the new foam mattress on the queen sized bed, the thick purple yoga mat rolled and waiting on the bedroom floor next to a soft cotton rag rug that stretches the length of the bed.

There's a stereo in the sitting room, and a big cabinet full of CDs, many still in their plastic wrap, unopened. He picks some jazz at random, turns the volume low.

"This is better, right?"

Liz smiles at him from the love seat as he wanders past. She's sitting cross-legged, rubbing her knees through her leggings.

No kitchen, just a wet bar with a coffee maker and a small wine cooler with a glass front. Red squints down at the bottles. All French whites, very drinkable.

"Very nice," admits Red, opening cabinets until he finds the wine glasses.

"I opened a bottle of the Montrachet last night," Liz informs him.

He's already pulled that bottle out and is pouring himself a glass.

"Would you like some, darling?"

"Yes, please."

Henry and Rachel, they are both such polite people. Well, they do work in a service industry. They have to be nice.

Red brings their wine to the love seat, takes a seat beside Liz.

"So when does our work begin?" he asks her, taking a sip and surveying her flushed face with appreciation. She's still so aroused that her eyes appear almost black, her pupils huge.

Henry enjoys making her wait.

Red can't get over how easily his Lizzie has fallen into an overtly submissive role. She's peering at him from beneath her long, heavily mascaraed eyelashes.

He's seen her do this for short periods. How long can she keep it up?

Hopefully, her jealousy will provide a leavening agent. There's an art and an effort to tempering his dominance, once unleashed, and Red knows from experience that too sweet brings out an unfortunate side of him.

"You have two classes and a private lesson tomorrow," Liz informs him. 

Better. Her tone is matter of fact, even though high color still stains her cheekbones.

"Ballroom?" he asks, taking another sip of his wine. 

Liz nods.

"You'll need to pick the music. And I've been hoping you can do something about the quality of the sound downstairs. Liliane thinks it's a loose connection in the wiring."

Red gives her a level look, and she drops her gaze back to her knees. He loves how the leotard clings to her, even if he deplores the color. She's been running in his absence, he can tell from the taut muscles of her thighs.

"I do prefer to pick my own music" he concurs, lifting his glass and examining the color of the wine. Beautiful.

Red enjoys electrical projects. And he does enjoy dancing, although he's not sure how to go about teaching lessons. He supposes he'll just dance with his pupils, and explain as they go.

Liz sips her wine as she lays out the weekly schedule for him, including the hours she and Liliane have established for which of them are going to cover the reception desk. They don't get many walk-ins, but that may change once they begin advertising the availability of lessons with Monsieur Henri.

He'll meet Liliane Bernard at dinner tonight. There's a small dining nook off the shared kitchen.

Tonight is soon enough.

Red waits until Liz is down to her last sip of wine, then lifts the glass from her hand before she can finish it.

"Henry?" she asks him.

"Is that leotard thing you're wearing one piece, or two?" he asks her, even though he knows the answer.

"Two," answers Liz, lifting the layers of white shirts up to show him.

"Take off the top part," he says. Without watching to see if she obeys, he rises, goes to the wine cooler, pours himself another glass. He can hear fabric rustling.

When he turns back to the love seat she's sitting there topless in just the leggings. They're so tight he can tell that she's not wearing anything under them.

"Lie back, Rachel."

He walks closer, towers over her as she lowers herself backwards, the toned muscles of her abdomen flexing above the elastic waist of the leggings as she leans against the padded armrest of the love seat. She's stiffening her neck, watching him with those enormous eyes.

"Relax," Red advises her. "Put your head back for me. There. Just like that."

Her head is back, exposing the pale, taut skin of her neck. Her eyes are closed.

Red sets down his full wine glass, lifts her left leg, and hooks it over the back of the love seat. Takes her right leg and swings it wide, so her bare foot is planted on the floor. 

Her mouth is open now, her breath catching as she lies very still, legs splayed wide.

"Arms back now, that's right. Up over your head."

Red holds her wrists lightly, walks her arms up and over her head so that he's standing behind her head at the side of the love seat, gazing down the lovely exposed lines of her bare upper body.

He lets out a long sigh of appreciation. 

"Very nice, Rachel," he comments. He leans forward and licks her parted lips lightly, then the line of her jaw, as he sets his hands on her. Her mouth opens, and she whimpers as he begins.

By the time his hands reach the leggings, she's shaking so hard that her pleas are almost incoherent.

Henry does enjoy making her wait.

Red pauses, takes a long sip of his wine, stroking her not quite hard enough through the leggings with the edge of his thumb. Watching her strain her legs wider, listening to her beg him. She's making increasingly inventive promises. At last he sets down the wine glass and rolls up his cuffs.

Leggings. He's never really appreciated them properly before.

***

Liz takes a shower before dinner, leaving Red to sip his wine and explore the record collection in the apartment. Choose the music for the next day.

He'll have time to work on the electrical system downstairs in the morning - his first class is scheduled for noon.

The small black and white bathroom is efficiently laid out, with a claw foot tub and shower combination, a pair of slim pedestal sinks, and a separate little alcove for the toilet. Vintage tile, but new brushed chrome fixtures.

Liz washes herself happily with honey-scented soap, her hands tracing the paths of Red's hands.

No, Henry's hands.

Even though Henry is clearly better educated, more cultured than Ted, she's having a harder time thinking her way into the role. Letting the hot water beat down on her back, stretching and arching away all the little sore spots from her unaccustomed movements at the barre, Liz picks through the elements of Henry's character.

Oh. It's so glaring she almost missed it.

Rachel doesn't trust Henry.

Every time Liz has doubted Red, he's been proven correct. Dependable. Truthful.

He doesn't tell her the whole truth. There are answers he doesn't have, painful realities from which he has never pretended he can protect her.

And she doesn't have any right at all to be jealous of anything Red might do when they're apart.

The ring on her finger is Henry's ring, not Red's.

Oh no.

Liz bends over in the stream of hot water, clutches her belly, the white wine she drank on an empty stomach threatening to reappear.

Oh no, she can't ever let herself think of Red that way. Not for an instant.

These games they're playing, with the bureau, with each other, with the world, they demand a certain level of detachment.

Raymond Reddington belongs to a world she can only observe, never enter. Liz has spent her whole life defining herself in relation to her mother. Her badge is only the start.

Red knew her so well, from the very first day they met. She wants to be famous, respected, an upright citizen. She's so proud of the number of criminals who are no longer tormenting and killing innocent civilians, because of her efforts. 

Liz knows too just how many illegal actions she's taken already, has been willing to take. But she's still on the right side of the line, or close enough to step back over. When she's ready.

Red, on the other hand, is doomed. Fallen. Destined to die by violence. For all that he's been a vital part of capturing or killing so many of those criminals.

Oh god, how she wants him.

What is she doing to her life?


	23. Dinner and Afterwards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Red and Liz and Liliane have dinner.

Dinner is a success.

Red and Liliane at once burst into happy extended conversation in French. Liz has taken six years of the language, classes in both high school and college, but she can only follow parts of the idiom-laced conversation.

The small table is set with a white cloth and matching napkins of figured linen. The rich cassoulet and small salad appear to be exactly to Red's taste. He and Liliane drink red wine together. Liz contents herself with water.

As she listens to them talk, it suddenly occurs to Liz that Liliane is closer in age to Red's generation than she herself is. They share a common language of music, history, expectations.

Henry. She's closer in age to Henry. That's all Liz needs to worry about, right now.

Liliane can serve as very good company for Henry, without inciting jealousy in Rachel. The older woman needs to become Rachel's ally in watching out for any signs of philandering. Anything unusual that might occur in the vicinity of the dance studio, actually.

Red's telling another story, waving his hands, his French thick with an accent she doesn't recognize. He's doing several different voices. Perhaps it's a snippet from a movie?

Liliane is laughing so hard she's covering her mouth with her dinner napkin.

Henry can be very amusing when he wants to be.

He rolls his eyes at her, clearly expecting her to share the joke. Rachel is not amused.

Liz sets down her fork.

"No dessert for me, thanks, I'm tired."

As she leaves the room she hears Red reassuring Liliane.

She'll go to bed early, get up at dawn for a run. Rachel is obsessed with maintaining her dancer's body.

However, Rachel is not much of a reader, so instead of a library card, Liz has invested in a Kindle and is working her way through the free classics available online. She's downloaded as many as the device will hold and password locked the screen.

She pauses in the bedroom, staring into the closet.

Damn.

She decided not to purchase nightwear. 

Rachel wants to assure herself every night that there are no unexpected bite marks or smells on Henry.

And Henry will need to pick out some lingerie for Rachel, to his very particular taste.

Liz shrugs and sheds her clothes, tossing them into her dirty clothing hamper on her side of the closet. Most of her things are cold wash only. Henry's suits and shirts require dry cleaning. Especially some of the bright new vests she's purchased for him to wear when he's teaching.

Liz slides naked between the sheets, turns on her bedside lamp and the Kindle. The foam mattress is more comfortable than her new bed at home.

She wants to catch the blacklister, but she can't help but hope that they'll be here for a while.

***

It's late when Red enters the apartment. He helped Liliane lock up for the night, which meant traipsing around downstairs, turning on and off lights as they checked to see that each window was bolted securely closed. 

Red feels much better knowing the complete layout of the building, the location of the fuse boxes, the alarm codes. The exits.

Henry would want to know too, but just to show he's in control now.

"Bonne nuit!" Liliane calls to him from her side of the landing.

Red gives her a little wave and a bow, lets himself in, then closes and locks the door. The sitting room is dark, but there's a light from under the closed bedroom door.

He opens it softly.

Liz is asleep propped up against her pillows, a Kindle in a red and yellow flowered case open on her lap. Her bedside lamp glows with gold light from under a pleated grass cloth shade.

She's so beautiful when she sleeps. So dear to him.

He watches her sleep, fixes the image in his memory.

Red uses the bathroom, closing the door behind him before turning on the light. Explores the wall mounted medicine cabinet above what is clearly his sink, with lemon-scented soap rather than the honey scent that Rachel seems to prefer.

Nicer versions of each product Ted used, plus a row of unopened bottles holding a variety of classic colognes.

He takes a brief shower, dresses in the printed cotton bathrobe hanging on the back of the door.

There are no night clothes in any of the built in drawers on his side of the closet.

Red shrugs and rolls out the yoga mat, gets down on the floor in the robe. The exercises are much easier now, after a week of treatments by every provider he's been able to fit into his busy schedule.

"Henry?"

He's just finishing when she calls his name.

"Almost done," he responds from the floor.

"It's so late." Her voice is sleepy, not critical.

He's not going to repeat himself.

When he stands up she's propped up on her elbows, scrolling from one screen to the next on the Kindle.

Her pale shoulders are bare above the covers.

Henry prefers a little mystery. He'll need to select some appropriate garments for her. Liz probably planned for Henry and Rachel to shop together this weekend.

But Red needed the full week to recover. To keep his own plans in motion.

There's always next weekend.

Red pauses by the edge of the bed, waits for Liz to look over at him before loosening the belt of his robe, letting the cotton fall open, then slide off his shoulders to the floor.

He's not really testing her, but still the flush of pleasure fills him as her eyes widen, revealing that desire is once again her immediate response to the sight of him. Red can't quite comprehend what Liz sees in his scarred, aging body, but he's so grateful for what it makes possible between them.

She wants him. Somehow, she wants him the way he wants her, at least her body does, responding as automatically as his own to even the suggestion of further intimacy. Red's wanted her so desperately, for so long. It's not often that reality manages to surpass his jaded imagination.

"Remember those promises you made me earlier this afternoon, Rachel?"

She flushes pink, then leans towards him and folds back the covers on his side of the bed in welcome.

"Yes, darling. Of course."

Henry doesn't need much sleep. Not really.


	24. A Long Run

Liz wakes up just before dawn, lifts her head, stares blearily around the bedroom. Her gaze comes to rest on a bare foot sticking out from under the covers, long toes sprinkled with a few pale hairs. Red's foot.

Her head is toward the foot of the bed. The covers are sideways and sliding off the sides of the bed, sheet in one direction, blankets in the other.

She blinks, remembering.

Lays her head down, closes her eyes, tries to forget.

Oh, she did not say those things, do those things, to Red. To Henry.

And his hands. His mouth. What she let him do to her. 

Pressed into the wrinkled sheet, she feels her mouth curve in an involuntary smile.

Red took off one of his masks for her, didn't he?

Or was it just his version of Henry, another game, the way he plays every game full on? As if this moment, this game, is the only game in town?

She needs to go running. She needs to be alone, in motion, to clear her head.

Liz slides from bed, collects her running clothes, dresses in the bathroom. Avoids her own reflection in the mirror.

It's going to be a long run.

***  
By the time she returns it's nearly noon.

Liliane is sitting at the front desk in a flowered dress over long patterned black tights. She's wearing dangly earrings made of tiny jet beads.

Liz is soaked with sweat.

"Monsieur Henri has almost finished repairing the sound system," Liliane informs her.

"Where is he?"

"In the storeroom. There's an old breaker on the back wall."

Liz frowns. She remembers the back wall as cluttered with shelves and plywood bins, holding props and bits of scenery from old dance performances.

Crossing the battered wooden floor of the main room of the dance studio, clean but badly in need of re-finishing, Liz makes her way to the storeroom.

Shelves have been shifted around and Red is crouching on the floor in his shirtsleeves, twisting some wires together. There are tools spread all around the unpainted concrete floor beside him.

The back wall has been punched open to reveal conduit, several metal plates connecting wires together, and what looks like the remnants of old fashioned, cloth covered wiring.

"Ah, Rachel! Did you enjoy your run?"

She meets his friendly gaze with hard won composure.

"Yes, it was great. Are you prepared for your first class?"

"Yes, indeed I am." He turns his gaze back to the wires. "I'll be finished here momentarily."

Liz swallows hard.

"Do you need anything, darling?" she asks.

He shakes his head. His hair is so short from his recent haircut it's no longer plush, more like stubble at the moment.

"Not unless you'd like to give me a kiss?" His tone is idle, and he's not even looking at her, needle-nose pliers in one hand, twisted wires in the other, but Liz shivers.

Oh yes.

She wants to kiss him. And she wants to take him apart.

And one part of her wants to turn around and walk out of the building and start running again. 

"Henry."

He looks over as Liz sinks down to crouch beside him, balancing on the toes of her running shoes despite the protests of her tight, tired thighs.

"You're my husband. I always want to kiss you."

She takes his face between her palms, kisses him with the memory of last night, of Ted and Angela, of their first time together all tangled and threaded together. Kisses him like she loves him.

Because he's her husband.

She knows how to play this particular game. It took her more than two hours, more than twelve miles, to remember that.

"Good. That's good. because I always want to kiss you, too."

His voice is so sincere, so raw.

To Liz, it feels like Red kisses her like he loves her, too.

She keeps her eyes closed and kisses him again. Storing up the memory as if it's the truth.

***

Red enjoys the first class. Six couples of varying ages, who are taking their lunch break to learn to dance together. He instructs the most experienced couple to demonstrate, provides feedback, then gets the group circling in pairs to his chosen music, occasionally cutting in to emphasize a particular improvement for each couple.

Half-way through the class, he changes the format.

Asks first the men, then the women, to demonstrate just the steps, in time, no turns or fancy footwork.

One of the woman has the steps wrong. Another has no sense of rhythm.

He works with the men again, then just one at a time, demonstrating a simple turn, the small flourishes that make it artful, easy.

They watch each other improve, catch their breath.

The last ten minutes is free dancing, as he observes. Encouraging them to try a faster pace, to meet each others' eyes rather than looking down at their feet.

The private lesson at two o'clock appalls him.

The woman is attractive enough, mid thirties, fairly light on her feet. She's wearing a corporate suit in a subtle plaid and high, bone colored heels that are completely unsuitable for dancing.

And she can't keep her hands to herself.

He's chosen simple steps, but revises the plan after the first time she twirls with some expertise in his arms, exactly on tempo.

He'd enjoy this if it weren't for the way she slides her grip down from his waist to his hip, brushes against him so frequently that the touches can't all be accidents.

Her pale blue eyes are expertly made up. There are fine lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth. She gives no indication of any emotion save perhaps disdain when the beginning of the lesson was too simple.

She calls him Monsieur Henri. Her cold eyes reveals that she thinks of him as a minion. Consumable. She leaves him a $20 tip.

Red storms upstairs afterward, finds Liz sitting on the floor in a long, bright Guatemalan vest over a magenta leotard and tights. Her freshly washed hair is braided and pinned up on her head. She's thumbing through the CDs, sorting out a little pile she might like to listen to.

"Rachel! Were you watching that woman? That private lesson?"

Liz looks up and shrugs.

"Not your type, Henry, so no, not past the first few minutes."

"She grabbed my ass!"

Liz bursts into giggles.

"So you think that's funny, Rachel?"

Her smile is so wide, so genuine, that it blunts his outrage.

He may have pushed her too far, too fast, last night. It's good to see her responding normally to him again.

"Well, I can see how she would want to ..." she grins up at him. Raises one eyebrow suggestively.

"More than once!" he exclaims, taking a short turn back and forth in front of the love seat. "Honestly, how could she think that was included in the price of the lesson?"

Liz is giggling again. It's such a gorgeous little giggle, and he's heard it so rarely.

"Maybe we need to raise our prices?"

"Oh, so you think your husband should be for sale?"

Liz uncurls herself, stands and comes to put her arms around him. Snuggles against him, runs her hands soothingly up and down the length of his body.

"No, darling," she says in a comforting tone.

Red puts his arms around her, rests his cheek against hers. She smells so good.

"Is this where she grabbed you? Or, here?"

She's never been so bold before. Rachel, on the other hand, is unexpectedly playful.

Red grabs her back, just hard enough to tickle her too. Tips them both over onto the couch, pulling her on top of him. Pinning her clutching hands under him as best he can with his weight.

"So you want to play rough, Rachel?" he leers suggestively up at her as she squirms against him, trying to get free. 

"No."

Her eyes are wide, not laughing now.

Damn. 

He ignores them, goes on in a teasing voice.

"Maybe you want to pin me down here, make me late for my next group lesson?"

Liz pulls her hands free, presses down on Red's shoulders, hard. Using the leverage to sit up on top of him.

Red sets his teeth, ignoring the sharp protest of his left shoulder, the shooting pains up and down his left arm. Instead, he reaches up, strokes her back beneath the heavy vest very gently. The neckline of her leotard dips low in back. Red feels his way up the knobs of her spine, kneading on either side.

"Oh Henry."

That's better.

He reaches her neck, massages it slowly up to the base of her skull.

"I don't want anyone to grab me but you," he informs her. She opens her eyes, leans down close as if to kiss him.

"You better not, Henry."

Her breath is hot on his lips. It's all wrong for Henry, but Red can't help himself.

"Please," he lets the word emerge. Parts his lips, waiting. 

Liz lets out a sound, a soft little breathless gasp.

"Oh."

And she kisses him, kisses him the way she did in the storeroom, and he lets her, surrenders to her, gives himself this brief slice of time.

It's worth whatever Henry needs to endure.


	25. At the Dance Studio

Liliane starts her new children's class the next evening. It's going to be a big group, 15 girls and two boys.

Bella, Brianna and Bibi Bonnier, the three little girls who are the next possible targets of The Actor, are enrolled.

Liz watches them in class through the one way mirror from the small office across the hall from the storeroom.

Like wooden nesting dolls, the Bonnier girls are three stair step versions from the same mold, eight, seven, and five and a half, with cafe au lait skin and frizzy blond hair and hazel eyes.

Liliane is orderly and patient as the class sorts itself out into three rows of obedient children. She's clearly very experienced.

Liz works the front desk, helps with jackets and shoes, before crossing the back of the classroom and entering the office.

Red has retreated upstairs, ostensibly to polish his dancing shoes.

They have a public show, a fundraiser featuring their young dancers, planned for six weeks from now. But the dress rehearsal may be sufficient to smoke out the The Actor.

The Bonnier children live in a gated neighborhood, attend an exclusive private school, are carefully chauffeured and guarded when their widowed father is away on business. These lessons are something different. The two older girls have their best friends in this class. Their parents won free lessons in an FBI-rigged giveaway. The girls together did the rest.

Liz hopes the concealed cameras and embedded agents in a one block radius around the dance studio will be able to spot The Actor. He's known to case every aspect of his victims' lives, prior to the snatch.

As a profiler, she knows that's because he likes imagining what he plans to do to each child, before he does it. In practical terms, though, it means he's cautious, and yet prepared to snatch any opportunity that might present itself. Any flaw in their security.

"Thank you, Madame!" 

A bell chimes. Class is finally over, and the children bustle out of the room as soon as they are dismissed.

Liz helps lock up afterward, declines Liliane's offer of a cordial. Red needs to watch with her on Thursday, the girl's next class. His informant wasn't sure which of the girls will be targeted. Liz is leaning towards the middle child, Brianna. She seems the most docile, malleable. But she wants Red's opinion.

She steps high over the chain on the stairs, feeling the tight muscles in her thighs twitch. Lets herself into the apartment.

Red has CDs spread out all over the sitting room floor in piles of various sizes.

"Are you making a list of which songs to use in each class, Henry?" she asks him, leaning down and pressing a lingering kiss into the thinning stubble on the very top of his head. Liz was never attracted to bald men, or men with shaved heads, before she met Red. Couldn't understand the appeal of certain action movies, certain famous actors, at all. 

"Yes, Rachel, I'm preparing for the no doubt overwhelming onslaught of new private lessons our fabulous advertising will produce."

They argued about the size of the advertisement in the local circular, even the photograph. Liz prevailed, but only because Henry relies on Rachel to plan and budget.

"It's a two for one coupon," returns Liz. "An onslaught of semi-private lessons."

"Well, I have most of what I need, but there are a few titles still to procure."

He smiles up at her, raising one brow.

"OK Henry, I can order them on the business credit card before dinner," she responds, holds out her hand. "Just give me the list."

Liliane will be serving dinner late on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Liz can hop online with her Kindle and have the CDs sent by overnight delivery.

He shakes his head.

"This list, like all my lists, is only up here." He taps his temple with his left forefinger, the diamonds in his wedding ring glittering.

Liz sighs. So much for a quiet evening. When Henry talks about music, he likes to provide her with commentary not only on the particular recording, but also the composer, the musicians, the last occasion he heard the piece performed.

Everything really, but who he's danced with to that music before.

Maybe she can distract him with a few jealous questions?

****

By Friday morning Red has a full schedule. The dance studio is in a transitional area, between a wealthy neighborhood and an area that's very slowly gentrifying. In two weeks, an outdoor festival will be held in the nearby park, with trailer truck food and artisan beer and local crafts. And a band for dancing.

Both Liliane and Liz are kept busy scheduling appointments, checking customers in and out, and responding to phone calls and emails.

Their outdated website is just one long page almost devoid of graphics, hosted on a secure FBI server. In the one blurry photo, small red rose bushes in front of the studio are in bloom. The actual plants arch higher than Red's head, by now.

But they have so many bookings, he probably won't have time to prune the roses this weekend. Let alone go shopping.

It seems, however, that plenty of potential customers are searching out their email address as opposed to calling the phone number on the advertisement. That makes no difference. Every IP address, the location of every call, is being stored and researched by the task force. Single men are subject to additional scrutiny.

If The Actor responds to their coupon, they can be ready for him. 

Liz manages to watch at least a little of every lesson, either through the mirror in the office, or by cleaning something in the back or side of the room. A free-standing mirror. The barre. The old upright piano, carved dark wood with a matching bench padded in red velvet so faded it's almost pink.

He's so graceful on the dance floor. So charming. Liz feels an increasing kinship with Rachel. Already, Monsieur Henri is clearly receiving offers. Opportunities to stray. 

After ushering out his last lessons of the evening, Liz enters the dance studio to find Red replacing CDs in their cases. His back is to her as he tidies the area around the sound system.

She'd love to dance with him. Perhaps a waltz? She can probably manage that credibly. He'll dance much closer to her than he did at the embassy, so long ago. Incredible to think that she was grateful, at the time, for the careful distance he maintained between their bodies.

"Ready to dance with your wife, Henry?" she calls out to him.

"Oh god, no!"

Red turns, limps towards her, taking off one shoe, then the other as he approaches.

She frowns. As so often, Rachel is not amused.

"I'll be in the bath," he says, shoes in one hand, unbuttoning his brightly striped silk vest with the other. The colors suit him, tones of blue and purple, even if she knows he thinks her choices a bit vulgar. Monsieur Henri can't be quite the perfect gentleman.

"Rachel, darling, if you will run up the street and bring me back a bottle, I will dance you to heaven and back. Just not tonight."

His tone is light, but she can tell from the tilt of his head that he's deadly serious. 

There's a liquor store only three blocks away. Henry and Rachel don't own a car, but she would actually enjoy a walk after being cooped up inside all day.

Liz holds out her hand.

"Tips?" she says.

He shrugs, sighs, pulls a fold of tens and twenties from his back pocket.

Liz dimples at him.

"See you in the bathroom."

****

Red listens for the sound of Liz returning with his scotch. The claw foot tub is just barely deep enough for him to relax, but the lemon bath oil is refreshing. He lays his head back and shifts a little lower in the hot water as his sore back begins to unwind.

Liliane is a wonderful French cook, but her portions are moderate. Between all these dance lessons and Rachel's assortment of tremendously enticing leotard and legging combinations, he's already beginning to lose weight. 

God knows what will happen once they find time to shop for lingerie. 

Henry needs to make the acquaintance of a local tailor, very soon.

Or else convince Liliane to cook richer desserts.

The sitting room door opens, and Liz peeks her head into the bathroom. Her long hair, henna-streaked, is piled up on her head in a high pony tail with wisps falling forward over her face.

"Got it!" She waves the bottle in the brown bag towards him. "Do you want a glass with ice? Or a mixer?"

Red rolls his eyes at her. Henry has a terrible habit of preferring mixed drinks to straight shots.

"Ice, with just a little soda, darling," he answers.

She returns with two highball glasses brimming with golden liquid. Hands him one, lowers herself to sit beside the tub on the tufted cream bathmat and takes a cautious sip of the other.

"Mmm, such a good idea, Henry," she says, closing her teeth for just an instant on the rim of the glass. Her teeth are so white, the little imperfections of her smile fascinating as ever.

Red takes a cautious sip, then a longer drink.

She bought the good scotch, thank goodness.

Liz fills him in on the latest from the task force, the upgrades to the exterior cameras, the weekend schedule.

As the water cools, he realizes she's just sipping very slowly at her own drink, having refilled his glass several times.

He feels so good. Until he tries to stand.

His sore feet are almost puffy, as if they've been beaten with bamboo canes.

Liz hands him a towel, winces in sympathy as he steps painfully onto the bathmat.

"I have seven hours of lessons tomorrow?"

She nods. "Unless you can convince Liliane to take the semi-private lessons. Then you only have two."

"Turn your eyes away then, Rachel, because I'm positively going to pay court to that woman." 

Red will ask to sit and watch as Liliane conducts the lessons, learn from her. The French language lends itself to graceful flattery.

Liz giggles.

"Come to bed, and I'll rub your feet," she offers. She looks down at the foot of the bed as they enter their bedroom.

Red shakes his head. "I'll do them tomorrow morning."

Liz sits cross-legged on the foot of the bed with a bottle of lotion, waits for Red to get comfortable at an angle on the bed. Takes his left foot in her lap.

Her small fingers are so strong.

Red closes his eyes and gives himself up to the pleasure of her touch. She doesn't stop at his feet, working up his ankles and his calves.

She's fierce in both giving and receiving pleasure.

Henry is too self-satisfied to be jealous, and Red knows better than indulge in foolish fantasies. Liz has been talking secretly with Aram, he's seen the photo of her leaning over to kiss him in the car. He hasn't confirmed who she was intimate with before Tom, because she's hidden those relationships so carefully. None of the slim, handsome men he knows about already have admitted to more than a good-night kiss. His people are still researching.

Raymond Reddington is enjoying this ordinary life of hard work and evening drinks and a wife who loves him. Even if it's not real.

His feet feel so much better.


	26. Someone is Testing a Plan

The following week Liliane finds a tiny camera hidden in the dance studio bathroom, the one used by customers. She rips it out of the the wall and smashes it beneath the pointy toe of her patent leather shoe before Liz can examine it.

Liz puts the pieces of the camera in a twist of paper, one the fliers for their upcoming dress rehearsal. Then she puts on her coat and heads to the liquor store, where Ressler meets her, stands beside her in front of the cooler discussing mixers, and she slips the paper into his pocket of his stained gray overcoat.

"Well, I guess I'll try the tomato juice someday, but I draw the line at that clam stuff."

His cover is friendly local drunk. From the color in his unshaven face, the smell of his breath, Liz knows he's falling into the role with gusto. Hopefully he won't get carried away.

He gives her a wink. She can tell he's amused by her hair today, little ponytails twisted into knobs on either side of her head. She shakes her head, the cascade of tiny silver bells that make up her dangling earrings chiming.

"My husband doesn't want anything but soda," she says in return. She'll buy another bottle while she's here; it never hurts to be prepared.

Funny how just the word 'husband' makes her smile internally now, something she thought impossible after Tom. Despite the annulment.

As they start towards the front of the liquor store, the front door swings open and there's a tall man standing in front of the register, a pistol in his shaking hand.

"All the cash or die."

The shopkeeper, an elderly Pakistani man with thick glasses, fumbles with the till.

Ressler freezes in his tracks, raising his arms up. Spreading his open overcoat wide.

Behind him, Liz scurries backwards, rounds the end cap, starts forward up the next aisle at a crouch.

She can pretend to be trying to escape. She just can't pull out her weapon unless it's absolutely needed. Rachel doesn't own a gun. Liz crouches and looks up at the big curved mirror at the end of the row.

"Hey man, give me some of that money too!"

Ressler's drunk voice is loud, not too slurred.

"Or a bottle. Tell him to give me whiskey." 

He staggers towards the gunman, arms raised high, a genial smile on his face. 

"Shut up!" 

The instant the gun is pointed towards Ressler, he kicks out and breaks the gunman's right knee, closes with deadly speed as the tall man collapses to the ground. Wrests the gun away and lays it on the counter in front of the cowering shopkeeper.

"Bet that's worth a bottle, huh?"

As Liz slips past him, running out and away from the store as Rachel would naturally do, she hears him wheedling the shopkeeper.

"Cm'on, maybe a couple bottles for an old vet?"

***

The camera. The gunman. The way the lock on the back door of the dance studio has been broken, twice. Someone is testing a plan, and Red is pretty sure it's The Actor.

The gunman, when questioned in police custody, has no ID on him. He refuses to speak, refuses an attorney. He appears to have committed two previous robberies in the neighborhood in the last week, both small businesses. No one was hurt in either theft.

Unfortunately, the tall man without a name escapes from police holding before the FBI completes the arrangements to transfer him to their own facility. If Red had unfettered access to his own people, he'd have answers by now.

Red packs away his CDs in their individual jewel boxes. He stacks the sound system full every morning, but puts them away every evening. It's a little game, to pass the time. Henry wants to choose exactly the right music for each lesson.

"Henry, can you play?"

Liz plinks idly at the piano. She can't even manage chopsticks.

"You know I can, darling," he responds. Oh, but it's been a long time.

Red comes to sit beside her on the velvet-cushioned piano bench.

He starts slowly, a simple waltz.

"Who taught you?" She leans close, watching his hands moving on the keys.

Red starts to say something about everyone in his generation being required to learn an instrument, thinks better of it. Henry's not interested in emphasizing the difference in their ages.

"My father." Red almost falters as his own words, combined with the tactile feel of the ivory keys, evoke a distant childhood memory. He looks down at his hands, concentrates on his playing. "He had very long fingers. I have my mother's hands."

How many people in the world know that now? 

Beside him, Liz shrugs. Spreads her own fingers wide.

"I've never seen anyone with my hands," she responds.

He glances over, keeps playing.

"I suppose I never will."

Red plays for a long time that evening with Liz close beside him, each lost in their own thoughts.


	27. Dancing

"Now, if everyone will sell at least five tickets, we will have made good progress in raising the money for a new floor."

Liliane smiles out at the crowd of children, some of them already dressed in modified leotards that makes them appears to be bright flowers emerging from tropical greenery.

"And don't forget to keep working on your costumes! We have less than two weeks to the dress rehearsal on Saturday."

Liz smiles over their heads as Liliane claps her hands to dismiss them after the chime sounds. Red emerges from the office after the last of the children has left, trailed by Liliane. He's wearing tight dark slacks and a paisley vest over a sheer white shirt, open at the neck.

"I agree with you about Brianna, Rachel," he says, wandering over to the sound system and tidying the piles of CDs Liliane left askew. "She needs to be front and center, to increase her confidence."

Liz twirls in an approximation of the first steps of the dance she gave to Liliane as her own original choreography. God knows who the bureau hired to create it - each of the three acts showcase the children's talents brilliantly. The loose layers of her cream gauze dress flare out as she spins, revealing glimpses of leggings and a crop top in palest pink nylon.

"Ready for that dance now?" Red asks.

"Yes, Henry."

She's watched him dance so many times in the past weeks. Paid careful attention to his instructions, the steps, even the more complicated passes and twirls. He never needs to know how much time she spent practicing dance steps alone in her apartment after their only previous dance together, the waltz at the embassy.

As the music swells from the speakers, Red comes to stand before her. Opens his arms.

"Rachel?"

Liz steps close, looks up into his face. It feels so different, placing her hands on his body for this ritual embrace. She can tell he feels it too, the odd restraint imposed by the patterns of touch this dance allows.

They move slowly together at first. Liz can tell Red is being careful with her, making sure she can follow his lead.

Rachel wants to follow Henry's lead. Liz lids her eyes and thinks of Rachel at 17, how she met and desired and chose the much older Henry. How he waited for the night of her eighteenth birthday to respond to her clumsy yet heartfelt overtures.

How they eloped across state lines. How they danced together as man and wife at a roadhouse, with scratchy music playing on a vintage jukebox, on their wedding night.

Henry. Her one and only.

Red's practiced smile has dissolved into a relaxed expression of genuine enjoyment as they move fluidly around the room. He makes encouraging little sounds of pleasure as she responds correctly to the lean of his body, the subtle pressure of his hands.

She never knew dancing could feel like this.

The dance studio is cooling rapidly as the thermostat shuts the heat down for the evening. The rows of large bulbs overhead cast a stark, cold light. The battered, scratched wood floor needs mopping and polishing, showing the wear and detritus of a long busy day.

Liz is in heaven.   
***

It rains heavily two days later, and the downstairs electricity shorts out, bringing down not only their lights but also their alarm system and the security cameras. And the heat.

Liliane stencils a brightly colored "Closed due to emergency repairs" sign, hangs it on the door, and departs for an afternoon of shopping.

Liz pulls on layers of sweatshirts over her scoop necked black leotard and tights, hiding her holster, and paces around the building with a glass of wine, tossing random exhortations and criticisms at Henry. Actually on patrol.

Red meanwhile has collected two elderly friends, chess players from the local park, one of whom happens to be a retired electrician, and is trying to repair the damage.

"No, no, that's not enough voltage to have fried thataways," the old man shakes his head, scratching the back of his neck where dirty white curls cascade down the center of his back.

Red tilts his head and peers at the offending panel. Makes a face of disgust.

"Then where did it come from?"

He looks up at the other old man, high up on a ladder with a long black flashlight balanced on his frail shoulder.

"Nothing up here," he calls down. "Lightning, you'd have seen something here, where that line meets the roof."

He points with the light.

Red shakes his head. This is most certainly the work of The Actor.

"If you were called out to repair this, where would you start?" he asks the retired electrician.

The man shrugs.

"Probably just replace the entire panel, replace that wire too."

He points up the wall, then over.

Red scratches his head.

"Would you open the wall?"

The old man shakes his head, curls bouncing.

"Naw, just pull the new wires up."

Once the rain stops, Red needs to go outside and examine the exterior surface of the wall.

Liz strolls by with her wine, ostentatiously takes a sip when he looks up.

"Aren't you finished yet, Henry?" she asks in a peevish tone. "We could go shopping together. You promised."

Right. The lingerie.

Red hasn't been putting it off, exactly. They have been very busy. It's not as if he hasn't been thinking about what he wants to see her try on.

Henry likes to make Rachel wait.

"Perhaps tomorrow?"

"You have time for everyone but me!"

She stomps her foot, a quiet sound in her customary ballet flats.

"Is it still raining, Rachel?" he asks her. "We need to be sure there's no damage from the short on the outside of this wall."

She shrugs, then purses her lips in a deliberate pout.

"I'll go and check." 

She flounces off as Red chuckles softly.

Message received.


	28. Rumba

Red is unhappy. 

He normally has a number of very specific diversions stored up to distract himself and others when he's not happy. None of them will work in this situation.

"Henry, she's been vomiting all morning. She just fell asleep less than an hour ago."

From her seat at the front desk, Liz waves one hand towards the stairs.

"I do not teach children, Rachel. I've made that perfectly clear on a number of occasions."

It's Thursday. The last class before the weekend dress rehearsal. The children are arriving at 6:30 pm for their last costume fittings, and then a longer practice.

Red knows the program. He can cue up the music, assemble the minimal stage sets he and Liz have constructed. He's watched most of the classes, from behind the mirror in the office.

"I am not going to ask Liliane to try and get up and teach in this condition. And we can't cancel."

Red glares at Liz. She cannot possibly be asking this of him.

"Henry!"

It's Rachel. She's demanding that her husband Henry do whatever the dance studio needs to make a profit.

"I have back-to-back lessons all afternoon."

She shrugs, her huge earrings, a series of concentric gold loops, turning in response to the motion.

"The children don't know me."

They were introduced to Monsieur Henri once, at the start of the second class.

"I'll stay in the room, help you with their names," Liz offers.

He knows their names. Their costumes. Their marks for each dance, masking tape crosses on the floor.

Red closes his eyes and leans against the worn wooden edge of the front desk for a moment. The bureau is no closer to catching The Actor than they were at the start of this placement. Their ongoing efforts may be inadequate.

He has no desire to know the Bonnier girls any better. Or any of these privileged, bright-eyed children.

"Really, Rachel? I'm just a babysitter now?"

Liz has braided her dark hair in many tiny braids today, each one strung with white and silver beads. Her head glitters more brightly than the diamonds in Rachel's wedding band.

"We do what we have to do, Henry."

He shoots her a poisonous glare, converts it to a beaming smile as he whirls to catch sight of his first afternoon lesson. A petite woman close to his own age, she's expensively dressed for the weather in designer tweeds. Red bends and takes her hands, kisses them extravagantly before admiring her heavy French perfume.

"Cecile! How wonderful to see you!"

He lays his hand possessively in the center of the small woman's back as he ushers her into the dance studio. He can practically smell Rachel's fury, her eyes burning a hole in his back.

Let her fume. 

She'll be in to check on him soon, under some flimsy pretext.

Oh yes. Monsieur Henri and Cecile, they're going to Rumba.

It's exactly what Rachel deserves.

***

The evening class arrives in waves, big shiny Suburbans and Expeditions disgorging the excited children, some dressed already in their completed costumes.

Liz shepherds the hanging of coats, the stowing of mittens and boots and folding umbrellas in the new cubbies near the door.

Red built them inexpensively from plywood, then lacquered them to a lovely golden gloss. He's as good with power tools as everything else she's seen him do. 

She latches the front door shut before following the last of the children into the studio. Hangs the "In Performance - Ring Bell" sign where it can be seen through the rain streaked window.

Red is standing at the front of the room, holding an ebony cane in one hand.

He licks his lips as Liz enters the room and crosses to take a seat on the piano bench at the back wall.

The children are milling about, whispering. A far cry from Liliane's orderly start to each class.

Red raps the cane on the wood floor, and the talking dies down.

"I am Monsieur Henri."

He looks out, holding each child's gaze briefly with his own.

"You must understand that I do not teach children. Only adults."

His tone is severe.

Liz can tell from the nervous glances between friends that he's making the children uncomfortable. She did pressure him into this.

"So? I will treat all of you like adults. Like the professional dancers you may one day become."

He raps the floor with his cane again.

"I expect you, all of you, to take this rehearsal seriously."

He gestures at the back of the room. All heads turn.

"My wife, the lovely Mrs. Magritte, will take you each aside, one by one, to be sure your costume is perfectly fitted."

Red raises the cane high. Liz watches the children's heads tilt back as they follow its movement. He swings it slowly from side to side above his head.

"So. When I touch you with my cane, you will each take your place for the first scene."

He bring the cane swinging down in an arc, stops just above the head of the smaller of the two boys. 

"Tony."

The cane touches his head. The little boy scurries to obey. He's dressed as a mushroom in a gray sweatsuit, an enormous puffy hat forming the cap. Red nods in approval when the boy reaches his mark and takes second position.

Liz relaxes. The class will be fine.

***

Red follows Brianna Bonnier out of the dance studio, watches her button up her fleece-lined raincoat and follow her identically clad sisters into the darkness under the escort of both her nanny and the family chauffeur.

Brianna is the target. He's sure about that. Bella is too assertive, and Bibi has numerous allergies. She arrives at each practice clutching a small pink inhaler.

"Henry?"

Liz is standing on the bottom step, waiting for him to lock up.

"Is there a problem with Liliane?"

She shakes her head.

"That dance you did with Cecile?"

Red smirks at her. That turns out to be a bad decision.

"Henry, you need to stay down here until you fix that security system. I won't be able to sleep at all until I know we're safe."

He grimaces. She knows perfectly well that the security company can't get new equipment out here until at least the following morning. He's already done everything he can with the wiring.

"But Rachel, it's been such a long evening?"

She shrugs, turns and heads upstairs.

Damn. There must be some reason she wants him down here, on the alert, instead of beside her in their comfortable bed.

Or perhaps she's really jealous?

Not, not Liz. And Rachel pulls him closer when she's jealous.

Red double-checks the door locks and the windows, pauses at the bottom of the stairs with his hand on the banister.

The security system. She must have received some kind of coded message from Ressler. Or perhaps Aram? She's been talking to him again.

Red turns the studio lights back on, crosses the floor to examine the feeds to the exterior cameras.

Nothing has changed in the studio, but the wires near the back door have been spliced to a thin wire painted to match the wall, which disappears into a tiny hole.

Someone had to get inside to set this up. Several parents did come in briefly with their children, bringing supplies for the costumes or the scenery.

And there's a particularly horrible thought, that The Actor could be a parent, using his own child as access to his victims.

Now that he is looking, there are several other fine little wires twisted into the walls like malevolent rootlets, branching off the other security feeds.

No wonder Liz didn't want him to come upstairs yet.

All that work preparing for the security company's visit tomorrow, wasted.

Red flips on the Rumba music from earlier in the afternoon. He'd blast it loud enough for Liz to hear, but he'd wake Liliane as well.

Whistling beneath his breath, Red gets to work shorting out the security system wiring once again. Once it's fried, he can cut those little wires or drag them loose.

And then, finally, he'll be able to go upstairs and get some sleep.

He does love to Rumba. Perhaps they'll be here long enough for him to teach Liz at least the rudiments of the dance?


	29. Dress Rehearsal

The skies clear on Saturday for the dress rehearsal. It's a cold, crisp, sunny day. All the parking for blocks around the studio is gone.

Liliane sold most of the dress rehearsal tickets to local business owners in the area at a discount, for them to resell at a profit. Parents are encouraged to not to attend, to avoid spoiling the full effect of the performance the following weekend.

Liz takes tickets, makes change for the few walk-ins, hangs coats in the temporary wardrobes erected to completely block the stairs to their private quarters.

Red is smiling and greeting the attendees, while Liliane focuses on the children.

More than half the dance studio is filled with rented folding chairs, each sitting precisely in place in carefully aligned rows of equal length and width. Rachel sat on the piano bench for more than 30 minutes, watching Henry make last minute adjustments to the position of each chair.

Ressler is sitting outside on their back steps with a bottle. All teams on alert.

As the music begins, Liz latches the front door and stands just inside the studio doors, watching.

The children are dressed as plants and flowers, their movements mimicking the arc of the sun in the sky, a gentle breeze, retreat before the frost of a long winter night.

The room is crowded, local children on their parents' laps, elderly pensioners from the senior living complex on the far side of the park. The owners of the liquor store and of the small Indian grocery, the dry cleaner and his two daughters. Henry's tailor and his wife.

Liz counts no more than twenty possibles for The Actor.

There's been no indication in prior cases of an accomplice.

Liz watches Brianna, positioned near the center of the stage. On Aram's advice, she slipped an RFID tag into each of her shiny new green dance shoes, between the sole and the lining, stitched another into the back tag of her leotard. If scanned, they look like anti-shoplifting devices.

Just a little back-up in case their plan goes awry.

Hugo Bonnier, the girls' father, would never have allowed this plan to go forward. He's still abroad on business, and not expected to return for the final performance. The FBI has not notified him of the threat.

Liz smiles and nods at Red as his eyes sweep the room. He's perched on a stool by the sound system, ready to control both the music and the lights for each scene.

Somehow, he's found time to install a few powered spotlights high on the ceiling. He's been up late, working, every night this week, and there are wires, switches, and various disassembled remotes strewn across the office desk.

Liz knows that Red enjoys working with his hands. Rachel has mocked Henry for not paying someone to do the work, calling it manual labor, but Red has just smiled blandly back at her.

He's seen her eyes linger on his capable hands. Liz licks her lips, thinks about the feel of Red's thumb in her mouth, the sensitive skin of his wrist.

When she meets Red's eyes again across the crowd, he quirks an eyebrow at her, then gives her a wide smile over the heads of the audience.

He too, is thinking about tonight. When the crowds go home.

***

Wearily trailing Red upstairs at the end of the very long night, Liz enumerates the information they've gathered.

There was no attempt on Brianna, but several elements of The Actor's strategy appear to be coming into focus.

Another robbery occurred three blocks away, the robber being a tall man with one knee stiff in a walking cast. A distraction.

Ressler was set upon by two apparent junkies who emerged from the back alley just before the first brief intermission. He fought them off, just barely, and thus managed to maintain his cover. The alley may be the exit.

There were two minutes of cell outage during the second act - several children who were being distracted by mobile devices became audibly fussy. No 911 service available.

A fire truck, and ambulance, and three police cars drove fast up the street past the dance studio, on their way to some type of disturbance in the park. Perhaps that was real. The clear weather comes with increased use of the park. Or perhaps the roads will be clogged, any pursuit blocked?

"I should do some stretches with you tonight," Liz says, lifting her tight shoulders and rolling her neck around.

Red pauses, one hand on the knob of the bathroom door.

"Perhaps we could take turns?" he responds. 

She shakes her head, pulls off her long loose vest and starts piling her jewelry in the deep wooden bowl she tucked in the top drawer on her side of the closet.

"No, I'm too sleepy," she answers.

"Rachel."

"What?"

Liz locks gazes with him. Why would Henry care if they exercise together?

They've danced together, bathed together, made love on every surface in the apartment. Tomorrow afternoon they're going lingerie shopping.

He looks down, unbuttoning the last buttons of his shirt. He's already shed his vest and trousers.

Does he think she won't let him get the exercises done that he needs?

"Look, I promise not to jump you until we're finished and back in bed," she offers, stretching her arms high over her head before leaning down to unroll the yoga mat.

Red goes into the bathroom without responding, shuts the door.

He doesn't need another shower - they both cleaned up before dressing for the performance right after a quick dinner.

Liz sits on the thick rag rug next to the yoga mat and closes her eyes. Begins a slow yoga routine.

She opens them when Red emerges from the bathroom, lowers himself to sit on the yoga mat facing her. He's still wearing a t-shirt and boxers.

"Rachel. Go to bed."

He has such a sour, pained look on his face.

Why did she promise to wait? She wants to replace that expression with anticipation, delight, joy, satiation.

Liz reaches over, runs her nails very lightly up his inner thighs to the edge of the boxers. Lowers her voice.

"How about we undress and stretch each other, Henry?"

The twitch at the corner of his left eye betrays him.

Come to think of it, she's never actually watched him do these exercises. Not once.

"Bed, Rachel?"

"Make me."

Liz leans forward, slides her hands to his waist, buries her face in his lap. Mock bites at him through his clothing as she tickles his sensitive ribs.

"Rachel!" 

Red grabs her, tickles her back, and eventually, after much tussling, lifts her upside down and flings her awkwardly up onto the bed. He's on his knees, chuckling, she's lying on her side, curled towards the foot of the bed. Their eyes meet, both panting.

Liz grins at him, her hair falling over her face.

"OK, Henry, you win."

She crawls up to the head of the bed and squirms down under the covers, as he lies back down on the floor, hidden from her sight, and begins his exercises.

When he wins, she wins.


	30. Lingerie

Red's idea of casual wear for shopping is one button open at the top of his dress shirt, no tie, and a vest that contrasts with, rather matching, his slacks.

Liz has abandoned her leotards for a short, fitted, kelly green dress with long sleeves and high-heeled boots.

Rachel and Henry argued about the best way to travel to the exclusive little lingerie shop, Swans, that Henry has selected. He wants to take a cab, but Rachel points out that the bus is so much less money. And they'll be together, which is all that really counts.

They compromise on riding the bus to the shop, and taking a cab back home.

After the first bus transfer, more than an hour into the uncomfortable journey, Liz concedes he was right.

Red rewards her for her honesty by dropping briefly out of character to play "Where's the Wallet?" with her for the rest of the bus ride. It was one of her favorite games as a child, second only to Hide and Seek. Liz always won at Hide and Seek. 

As they finally approach Swans, Liz feels a decided quiver in the pit of her stomach. This seemed like such a good idea at the time. But now that she's here? The plastic models in the window seem to be far more generously endowed than she will ever be, especially considering how much she's been running lately. Is she just going to look foolish?

Red pats her hand. She's clinging to his arm too tightly - she needs to relax.

As they enter the store, a saleswoman approaches immediately. She's tall and lovely; all the staff within sight are very attractive women, beautifully made-up, in black dresses and heels.

Red runs his gaze slowly around the large room, filled with racks of feminine underwear, nightwear, and fetish wear, in obvious appreciation. He's so much more comfortable here than she is.

"My name is Claire. I will be happy to start you a room. Please let me know if there's anything I can do to assist you."

"Henry Magritte."

Liz glances over at Red. What does he think he's doing? Oh. The saleswoman is writing his name on a little card. For the dressing room.

"Henry?"

Liz tries to focus her tone on jealous, rather than embarrassed. Red gives her another pat on the hand.

"Why don't you pick out a nightgown or two, Rachel, while Claire shows me a few ... more ... specialized items?"

His eyes drift towards the fetish wear once again.

"Sure."

Liz releases his arm, smiles in welcome at a second black-clad saleswoman who immediately approaches.

"Let me show you some items in your size," the woman smiles. "I am Marjorie, and you are?"

"Rachel."

"Right this way."

Feeling a little helpless, Liz allows herself to be led away to one side of the store as Red saunters off in the opposite direction, trailed by Claire.

She meets Red later in a large dressing room adorned with mirrors on all three walls.

The racks on the back of the door are crowded with hangers - her choices in white and a few in the pastels that seem to suit Rachel's taste, his in deep rich colors, or black. She eyes the items he selected, noting leather, lace, and what appears to be vinyl.

Red takes a seat on the bench on the back wall of the dressing room, sets his hat beside him, and crosses his legs expectantly.

Oh.

Liz checks to make sure the latch on the door is securely fastened, before turning her back to Red.

"Unzip me please, Henry?"

It's such a pleasurable feeling, the brush of his fingertips, that Liz almost wishes they were trying on dresses together.

Red chuckles as she piles her clothes unceremoniously on the bench beside his hat. She's here to shop, not perform a striptease.

"OK, what's first?" she asks him.

"Let's take turns," he suggests, still chuckling. "Five at a time. Please, go first."

Liz models several loose, sheer nightgowns. They both agree to eliminate the ones that appear too fragile.

"So much white," Red comments. "Start with the black lace I chose. There, on that hanger."

Liz lifts the hanger and turns it curiously. Bare wisps of lace and net fabric resolve into minute panties and a garter belt, and something that appears to be less of a bra than some type of delicate, multi-stranded upper body harness.

Staring at the items, Liz feels suddenly reluctant to pull off the loose white silk nightgown she's wearing.

The black lace outfit is so minimal, more intimate that mere nudity. It seems designed to display every inadequacy in her small, somewhat muscular frame.

Damn. She can feel herself blushing. 

"Rachel?" Red's voice is soft, coaxing. "You're not shy now, are you?"

Liz stares at the garment, then finally, at Red. They've both been looking forward to this. No, actually, all four of them. Rachel wants to please Henry. Henry is easily bored and craves variety. Liz wants to please Red. And Red? 

"Darling? You've surely worn items this revealing in the past?" he prompts her.

Liz shakes her head. They spent almost two hours on the bus getting here. She's not going to cry, or pick a fight. There's nothing for it but the truth.

"You would know, Henry, you're the only man I've ever loved."

Been with. Slept with. That's what she meant to say.

Red leans forward, his eyes intent. Raises one brow in inquiry.

The dressing room is done in tones of gold and red - red carpet, plush red wallpaper, flattering, carefully placed light casting a soft glow over her skin. Little gold swans decorate the finials of the racks, the door handle, even the light fixtures.

"You really want to discuss this, here?" Liz whispers furiously, leaning forward so her lips are beside his ear. His cologne smells wonderful. He knows exactly how little to use, just enough that she longs to take a deep indelicate sniff.

He tilts his head. Waits for her to continue.

One more opportunity to purge another horrible memory. There's no one but Red she can imagine talking to about the farce that she thought was a marriage.

"Tom wasn't interested in this type of thing at all. He liked me undressed. That was enough."

She's blushing harder, but at least she got the words out.

"And?"

Why is he treating her like this? She can't think of why either Henry or Red would give her that cynical little smile.

"And what?" she asks him.

Red blinks at her.

"You've never worn these types of outfits for anyone else? Any of your other ....?"

At least he has the decency not to finish that sentence. Liz can feel the blush spreading unattractively down her neck.

Oh god. 

Liz grits her teeth. Leans so close her lips touch his ear.

"Tom. And you."

Then she backs away, absorbs the look on his face.

It's so completely neutral, it's as if Red is still waiting for her to speak. Liz knows that expression. He's turning something over furiously in his mind.

"We don't have to do this," he says finally, in a decisive tone of voice. No regret at all. "Although Rachel, I do think you would look so beautiful, so sexy, so perfect, in some of those outfits."

Liz swallows hard. His voice is rich, compelling. Trustworthy. 

She chose him. Not just the criminal in the expensive suit, Raymond Reddington, wealthy, dangerous, and powerful, but also, always, the man underneath, who plays these games with her. Red, who wants to please Liz.

"Let's find out, shall we?" she says gamely. Pulls the soft white nightgown over her head, unclips the black lace garter belt from the hanger, and stares at it suspiciously.

"Does this go on first?"

"Allow me to assist you, darling," responds Red, beaming at her in unqualified approval.


	31. The Denouement

The afternoon of the performance everything seems to be going so smoothly.

Liliane is flitting about happily in a long, layered dress, her leggings barely visible beneath the variously colored floating hemlines trimmed in matching feathers. Red is back in his black suit, testing the sound and lights almost obsessively. 

Leaving Liz to help with the scenery, the early arrivals, and the tickets. She finally convinces Liliane to alight by the front desk and welcome the children before their audience arrives.

Bella and Bibi Bonnier arrive, holding hands, giggling with excitement.

Liz stares at them, a horrible sick feeling making itself felt in the pit of her stomach. She crouches at Bella's side, starts unbuttoning her jacket as Bella tries to push her hands away.

"Girls? Where is your sister?"

Bibi points.

Liz turns her head to see an unfamiliar man carrying Brianna into the lobby. He's short and a little plump, with blond hair plastered to his skull with too much gel.

"She lost her shoe under the seat," he announces, lowering her carefully to the floor. She smiles up at him and he gives her a pat on the head, careful not to muss the berry-laden artificial branches braided in a crown around her small head. "Keep your shoes on, Bri." 

"You're not watching?" she asks him as he straightens up.

He shakes his head. "I'll be back after the show, girls."

He gives Liz a respectful little nod, smiles at each of the girls until they wave at him, then departs.

"He's not your usual driver," Liz comments.

Bibi nods.

"He's Marcus, our old chauffeur," Bella informs her somewhat officiously. "He used to drive us before Bibi was even born."

"Did not," returns Bibi, lifting her inhaler partway towards her lips. She's in layers of yellow and cream with touches of black, perfect for her role as a honeybee. "He drove me too."

Liz looks from one girl to another.

"OK, OK," says Brianna, ever the peacemaker. She takes Bibi's hand, urges her toward the studio door.

Liz follows her with her eyes as the small sturdy figure dressed in green passes through the swinging doors. It will be today. They're all sure of it.

She needs to contact Aram, let him know about this Marcus. Ressler is already in position out back.

As the children cluster in excitement at the side of the front of the dance studio, which is marked off as the stage, Liz looks over the heads of the parents, family and other audience members with a sudden start of stage fright. This is it - these children, all of them, are now her responsibility, and Red's, to keep safe.

***

The first two acts are unexpectedly smooth, which raises Red's situational awareness to the point where he almost feels as if he's floating above the scene, alert to any indication that the attack has begun. As in so many other operations, he has built a three dimensional map of his surroundings in his mind, prepared certain responses for certain possible attacks.

He's tied five additional cameras into their security system, accessible only by password, so that he can monitor what he privately considers the points of weakness in the dance studio.

Several sections of the stage area are cluttered with scenery and props - there's enough space for the children to squeeze through and they move on and off stage in response to the music, but no sight lines. No visibility.

The back door has locks and bolts tied into the security system, as well as a heavy internal deadbolt. He's put the security system on a clicker, tucked in his vest pocket. He has two cameras recording the hall by the back door from different angles, as well.

As the children come back to their positions for the start of the third act, Liliane assisting them, Red looks over at Liz. She's standing by the door to the front of the business, watching the audience seat themselves, a deliberately wide smile on her face. Her blue eyes move constantly, not finding what she seeks.

She's wearing a particularly glittery outfit today, shiny beads dangling from the loose garment that covers her leotard and leggings. He's sure she's armed from the occasional twitch of her right arm as it encounters her holster.

Rachel doesn't own a gun.

Liz must be more worried than she's admitted to him.

Red starts the music and lights, stands against the back wall to watch as the children begin the third act, the frosty winter night. When he can't see their faces, he could imagine them to be anybody. But he can't allow himself to think that way, not today.

He'd rather watch Liz, anyway.

The force of that thought hits him like a blow, leaves him vaguely nauseous.

Red blinks, stares at the crowd. Liz is moving towards the door, smiling at a plump blond man.

Now where has Red seen that face before?

Everything seems to happen at once.

Brianna, at center stage, doubles forward, vomiting.

Sirens and honking from outside, then smashing sounds, and multiple car alarms, one after another.

Half the audience is on their feet, moving towards the doors. Briefly pinning Liz as the blond man moves towards the center of the room.

The fire alarm sounds and the emergency lights high on the ceiling begin flashing. Damn. He must have missed a wire. Or it's the FBI, adding their own little touch to get the audience away from the scene.

Red steps forward, stands between the blond man and Brianna. Bella is at her side, Bibi is hiding under a brightly painted wire and paper apple tree, sucking on her pink inhaler.

"Mr. Reddington! What a surprise! It's been a while since I availed myself of your services."

This man was merely a gun runner, the last time they met. At least he hopes so.

Red gives The Actor a tight grin, ignoring the small deadly pistols he's suddenly brandishing. The Actor gestures at Brianna.

"I'm here for Bri."

"I'd prefer a bit more notice," Red responds, scooping Brianna into his arms and wiping her mouth with his pocket handkerchief. Gives Bella little push on the head.

"Fire drill, go outside now," he directs her. "Take Bibi. We'll be right there."

Bella hurries to Bibi, drags her out of her hiding place, and joins the crowd trying to exit.

Ducking around the scenery, ignoring the loud screams and cries of distress as too many people attempt to exit the small dance studio through the front exit all at once, Red leads The Actor towards the back door.

He's sure Liz is following him by now, but that can't be helped.

"There's an FBI agent outside, disguised as a drunk," he warns The Actor. Looking down to step over a coil of wires connected to some up lights, he sneaks a glimpse of Liz, following them soundlessly in bare feet.

The Actor laughs.

"Already accounted for," he responds.

Carrying Brianna with her head against his shoulder, Red leads The Actor through the small hallway, past the office and the storeroom.

At the door he turns, faces The Actor.

"Take her now. I'll get the door."

The Actor tucks away one pistol, holds out his arms. 

"Come here, Bri."

Brianna goes willingly to him, snuggles against him.

As Red hands Brianna to The Actor, he shifts position just enough that he is standing in the center of the hall, his body blocking Liz from taking a shot.

"Do you need any further assistance?" he asks The Actor, pulling the clicker from his pocket. As if they have all the time in the world.

"No, Hugo set up everything I need," responds The Actor.

Red raises his eyebrows. No wonder the girls were allowed to enroll in this dance class, so far from their protected, gated neighborhood. That makes so much more sense than what the FBI has been telling him.

Red pushes the clicker, sets off all the security alarms.

Unlocks the last bolt.

"On you go," he says in a genial tone, still ignoring the pistol. "I do hope you'll consider doing business with me, in future."

The Actor barks out a laugh.

"Very possibly, Mr. Reddington," he says.Then he turns and steps across the threshold of the back door.

Red pulls out his own weapon and shoots The Actor in the back of both knees.

The blond man crumples, dropping Brianna, who begins to scream.

Red turns aside, covering Liz as she rushes forward and scoops up the crying little girl.

"Back inside," Red orders her, eyes on the sky.

But there's no evidence of how The Actor intended to escape, only FBI running from all directions. Ressler appears from behind a dumpster, limping rather than running.

Liliane appears behind Liz in the hall.

"Oh, Brianna!" she exclaims.

Liz hands the child to her, follows Red out into the back alley as he watches the FBI take The Actor into custody.

"Come along, Lizzie, we have a few last things to wrap up," Red announces. He tucks away his weapon and strides off down the alley. She'll follow if he doesn't look back at her, he's almost certain of that.


	32. Two Choices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What comes next?

"Wait! You're not waiting for the extraction?"

Liz runs after him, heedless of her bare feet.

"No, and neither are you."

Red takes her arm, hustles her down the block and into the backseat of the limousine waiting at the edge of the FBI inner perimeter. The tinted windows shut out the chaos. Flashing lights everywhere, police, fire trucks, and FBI.

The big car pulls out into traffic. The security screen slides down.

"Dembe!" 

Liz leans forward and reaches out to touch the big man's shoulder. To reassure herself that he's real. It's been such a long time.

"It's good to see you again, Elizabeth," he responds gravely. Within three blocks, he steers the car up a narrow metal ramp that debouches unexpectedly onto the interstate.

She looks back out the tinted window behind her.

"I didn't know there was an on-ramp there."

In the distance, she can see a construction crew in orange vests moving cement blocks back into place. Covering the gap from which they had emerged.

"There isn't," responds Red.

Dembe slides the car over into the far left lane and accelerates.

"Where are we going?" she asks Red. He's sitting back comfortably, having fished a silver flask from a compartment with a rack of variously shaped glasses.

"Lizzie, we need to talk."

She winces. This can't be good.

"Drink?" 

She shakes her head.

He pours himself one, savors an initial sip. The limousine fills with the rich scent of expensive scotch. She can tell he's happy he can now avoid the mixed drinks that Henry liked so much.

There is no more Henry. No more Rachel.

Liz looks down at her outfit of leotard and leggings, covered with a loose silk poncho with a fringe of dangling beads. She has one bare foot tucked up under her, heedless of the pristine leather upholstery.

Back to suits and properly constructed shoes.

"I'll need to work on the plane," Red announces. "We can talk back at your apartment."

Her apartment? With a grinding shift of mental gears, Liz remembers her doorman, the hush of the heavily carpeted hallway, her small rooms, the empty kitchen. 

"Raymond?"

Dembe passes a phone back to Red, who begins conversing eagerly in German, a broad smile spreading over his face.

Liz sighs and looks out the window. At least on Red's plane there will be plenty to read.

She's in no hurry to think about Cooper's reaction to Red slipping away between placements once again.

What matter is that Brianna is safe. And Bella and Bibi will be safe now too, once the FBI arrests Hugo Bonnier.

***

"We'll just be a few minutes."

Red ushers Liz out onto the sidewalk in front of her apartment building. It's cold and windy. He tugs his hat down, his long burgundy scarf tangling with every gust.

"Do you want me to circle?" asks Dembe. The curb is painted red.

"No, I'll give the doorman some love."

Dembe nods, opens a newspaper.

Draping his arm around her, Red strolls with Liz past the door man, passes him a folded fifty.

"My car will be gone soon - but please keep an eye it for me?"

Red's voice is low, bland.

"Yes, sir."

Great. Just great. She can't afford tips like that.

They don't speak in the elevator.

Liz digs her keys out of the bottom of her purse, lets them into the cold little apartment. Turns on the lights.

Might as well get down to it. The apartment is surely being monitored - the bureau will be here very soon.

"So what do we need to talk about, Red?"

He finishes bolting the door, tosses his hat onto the couch. She moves in that direction, but he walks through to the dining nook. Takes one seat. Waits for her to take the other.

The small table is covered with a clean white tablecloth, now a little dusty. The same one from their first dinner here, so long ago. She washed and ironed it, put it back on the table. Liz touches the pattern on the cloth, runs her finger along the curves.

Where has that woman gone? The woman who wanted to date Kenneth Alan Moore, who served dinner to Raymond Reddington, who bought a whole box of condoms and placed a few in her bedroom drawer, just in case some man after Tom was ever interested in her?

"Lizzie, please."

Red sounds a little annoyed now. 

She looks up to meet his eyes. Focus, Liz.

He pulls a half-size brown envelope out of his overcoat pocket, lifts the flap.

"We have two choices."

Red slides her badge out of the envelope, sets it on the table to her left.

"First choice. We go on to the next safe house, the next placement. Continue eliminating blacklisters one by one, with the FBI as our backup. I would need two weeks to complete my business this time, but then I could meet you back at the Post Office."

Two weeks. That sounds like forever.

Liz looks down at her badge. She could swear she left it in her locker at the Post Office. But there's her so-young face in the head shot photo, heavy dark hair swooping low across her brow in the look Tom favored.

Why does everything here, in her new apartment, filled with her new furniture, suddenly remind her of Tom?

Red pauses, his fingers in the brown envelope, then pulls out a passport. No, there are three passports, US, Canadian, and French. Stacks them on the table to her right, lines them up with her badge.

She flips the top one open.

No name, no photo.

Looks up at Red in inquiry.

His mouth moves, in the gesture that means he's choosing his words carefully. Sometimes, that the listener should ignore his words. Liz focuses on his eyes.

She's still touching the passport. He's watching her hands.

"Second choice. Come away with me, use my resources, our resources, to eliminate the remaining threats. We can continue to lure them out, or pursue them actively. We leave tonight."

She shakes her head slowly.

"And if I decide to go back to my old job, your old immunity deal?"

"Not possible."

His voice is decisive.

"Too dangerous?" she asks, stalling for time. She lifts the next passport from the pile. Blank as well.

"We're not done with each other yet, Lizzie."

Oh. 

Red keeps saying 'we.' She's finally caught that.

What else has she missed?

"There's no name in these passports," she comments, opening the third one. No birth date, no place of birth.

"Well, you're welcome to mine. If you'd like?"

Liz starts to snap at him, tell him she's had enough different names in the last few months, thank you very much. Closes her half-open mouth.

"Are you ... are you ...?"

Red shrugs, his face crinkling into a sheepish smile. He shakes his head, just a little, still watching her hands. Not meeting her eyes.

"With a pile of counterfeit passports? In my apartment? With Cooper and half the strike team about to bear down on us in complete fury for avoiding a proper debriefing?"

Liz slaps the passport down, raises her hands in exasperation.

She's about to light into him with every bit of Rachel she can muster when she can't help but notice he's still staring at the passports.

It feels as if all the air has been sucked out of the room.

Oh.

He's still waiting for her answer.

Liz looks at Red in the space provided by his down-turned gaze. The plush of his close-cut hair, glinting red, gold or silver depending on the light. The soft skin beneath his eyes, the sensitive curve of his skull behind his earlobe, his high, smooth forehead that freckles so easily. She knows the smell, touch, taste of him so well. Every inch of him.

She's absolutely sure now what she wants to do with her life.

"Yes. Of course, yes."

Liz reaches over and straightens the pile of passports so they line up neatly. 

"Future Number Five on the FBIs Most Wanted list, that's me."

Now Red does meet her eyes, his tense expression dissolving into the most fatuous smile she's ever seen on his face. Despite her efforts to maintain her composure, she can feel her own face begin to glow with a matching smile, her eyes stinging with tears of joy.

"Actually, Harold's willing to release you on extended unpaid leave. So you won't be on the most wanted list. At least, not on our honeymoon."

Liz puts out her hands across the table to Red, watches as he lifts her fingers to his lips.

He kisses Rachel's diamond encrusted wedding band, then her ring finger.

"I think we can do a little better than this, can't we?" 

"We're never going to be done with each other, Red." 

Liz traces his top lip with her thumb, then the faintest trace of stubble above it. She can't imagine ever getting enough of his mouth, his deep voice, the transient sweetness of his rare unguarded smile. 

"So you better buy me a ring I'll still love when I'm old."

He chuckles, kisses her fingers again.

"I can manage that, Mrs. Reddington."


End file.
